


Don't Touch Me

by QuincySummers



Series: Don't Hold Back [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Background Mystrade, Everyone has mental scents, Hurt/Comfort, John also has rules, John gets psychically tortured, John is a telepath, John is kind of angsty, M/M, Moriarity is evil as he should be, Moriarty kind of has it out for John, Oh and Mycroft is kind of a bastard, Psychological Torture, Sherlock doesn't find out right away, Slow building plot, Supernatural Elements, Telepathy, Torture, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000, but he does find out eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 104,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuincySummers/pseuds/QuincySummers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where John's a telepath and finagles a flatshare with the great Sherlock Holmes. Between hiding from Mycroft and dealing with the stress and blackouts his Gift causes him, he still manages to excite Moriarty and just so you know, its not the good type of excitement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rules

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally got an Ao3 account and I'm so happy. This is a repost from ff.net and I'm trying to expand this fics horizons.  
> Also, all mistakes are my own.

 

 

 

 

* * *

There are rules to the Gift.

Rule #1 - If it is possible to save a life while still keeping the secret then that life is John's personal responsibility.

Rule #2 - Always have a pair of headphones ready

Rule #3 - Never pry into someone's mind unless it concerns Rule #1 or self-preservation

Rule #4 - Avoid all acts of intimate touching of skin, unless for Diagnosis or unless in association with Rule #1

Rule #5 - Take Precautions. Wear gloves and an abundance of clothing (jumpers) when out in public and around people.

Rule #6 - The gift is to be keep a secret, people do not need to think him mad.

Rule #7 - Wear two pairs of Latex gloves when working with patients. Better safe than sorry.

Rule #8 - Avoiding crowded areas is appreciated

Rule #9 - Know the limits of the gift, over exertion could result in nosebleeds, hospitals, migraines, or worse

Rule #10 - Sherlock must never find out

There are rules concerning his......Gift. Granted John has made the rules by himself and for himself, but they are still important and necessary _and_ he abides by them all.

(Leave it to Sherlock to be the one person who questions and pushes John to the edge of all his rules. But that's another part of the story).

First, the history of John's gift has to be told. It's unsurprising but a necessary tale.

_He died._

Technically. He was dead for three minutes. It was during his third year of Med School and he may have had a bit too much to drink while walking a bit too close to the Thames. One thing led to another and next thing John had known was water in his lungs and blurry vision. He had been clinically dead for three minutes. Thankfully, his friends had sobered up real fast and gave him CPR.

Guess it wasn't so much a 'near death experience, rather and actual death experience.

_Afterwards, everything had been a blur of denial and morphine-induced craziness._.

John had spent three days in the hospital, drugged up and recovering from his 'death', (not to mention bit of infection from swallowing the dirty water of the Thames). All the while, he started to hear noises and voices that weren't there.

Unsurprisingly, he freaked out, especially when touched.

To this day, it still surprises John that the staff didn't admit him to a sanitarium. Lunatic seems a bit of an understatement for how he acted.

After he was realized from the hospital, he spent the next couple of months in heavy denial. Ignoring the voices and taken an unhealthy amount of pain killers for his frequent migraines. Eventually, he snapped. One too many hospitalizations for panic attacks and severe migraines because he went into and overly crowded store or someone accidentally touched him while handed him (talk about embarrassing story).

There had been no more room for denial.

John H. Watson can read minds.

He had chastised himself for how cheesy and unoriginal it sounded but it was true. He finally had to face it and and accept that he can, in fact, hear other peoples' mind.

He could find no other explanation, and predictably, Google had not been helpful whatsoever.

It takes another couple of months for John to give up on the Google Gods completely, and transfer his stubbornness, motivation, and patience to honing and mastering his gifts.

Finally, he's able to break his gift into three parts.

1\. He always hears peoples' minds. No matter where he is, no matter how crowded or deserted the place is. However, he doesn't hear the minds 'clearly'. They are fuzzy, hazy and incoherent. Sort of like white noise, really annoying and headache-inducing white noise, (the headphone rule was birthed because of said white noise). They remain muddled unless John focuses on a specific mind.

2\. John had found out, with a fair amount of guilt, that if he concentrates hard enough, he can zero in on an individuals' thought. One day, John was listening to the barely tolerable white noise of others' mind when he suddenly hears a stream of sentences being projected in his mind. He hadn't realized he'd been distractedly staring at a girl across the cafe. He had been focusing on her and in turn had accidentally tapped into her thoughts. Almost right away, as he listened to the girl at the cafe think about perfume, he made the rule not to pry. He felt weird and creepy invading her privacy. Understandably, John had been unsettled by how easily he could invade peoples' mind, their privacy. He spent the next months mastering and shielding his abilty, hoping to shut out other people and their thoughts.

3\. Unfortunately, one of the most powerful aspects of his Gift is through a tactile situation. Thankfully, John wasn't a very touchy person before the incident so nothing really changed. It was his third or fourth hospitalization that John realized it was worse when people touched his bare skin. When someone touches John's bare skin, he stiffens and become bombarded with memories and thoughts of the person.

However, that's not the worse part. When John's connected to someone via touch, he is exactly that, _connected._ He's woven into their subconscious and memory. So when they are done touching him, especially if its an accidental brush of hands, their connection breaks instantaneously and very, very painfully. This had been the cause of many hospitalizations, copious nosebleeds and blackouts. John never really got  accustomed to the breaking connections and it was too painful for John to try and master. Eventually, he gave up and took to wearing jumpers and gloves.

* * *

When John accepted this new part of himself, he sat down and made the aforementioned rules. He has always been a moral person and he knew that he needed something to keep his Gift in line. Even back then, he knew that his ability is/could be dangerous. John figured he needed to make sure his self-control didn't get lost along the way.

John Watson has always been a compassionate and ethical person and about as selfless as one could get. It was one of the reasons he became a doctor and he uses that compassion to keep himself attentive vigilant against the possibilities of his gift.

Even though he had his rules, there was always the room for self-doubt. He spent all of time at the beginning second-guessing himself.

The doctor would repeatedly ask questions of himself like:

_"If I can save their life by using my gift, should I?"_

_"Am I morally obligated? Ethically obligated?"_

His questions remained unanswered until about six months after his 'death' and the first rule quickly became the most important one of them all.

It was a March day, he was walking down the street after one of his studies. His white earphones were pushed into his ears. John had recently found out that listening to music through headphones helped lessen the white noise and annoying mumbling thoughts of London's population in his brain.

Suddenly, he heard a noise, a sort of yelling in his head. It broke through his musical barriers and echoed painfully. He staggered on the street, listing to one side as he tugged his earphones out and scanned the busy London street. People on the footpath strolled around him, glaring at him suspiciously. John ignored them, looking for evidence of distress in the area. Another yell echoed through his brain, causing John to shut his eyes at the unpleasant intrusion.

_"Why? Why did he call whilst I'm working?"_ He heard the thought invade his head. He whipped his eyes around, trying to find the origin of the thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a cab speeding down the street. John concentrated clumsily on the driver, wringing the headphone cord in his hands distractedly. 

Sure enough, the woman cab driver's yells screamed in John's mind. He was dazed and wondered idly how the thought had penetrated his defenses.

He didn't have time to really question it because that's when noticed the cabby's reckless driving and it was headed right in his direction.

John whipped his head around to see if anyone else had noticed this distressing situation but London's populace only kept their heads down and their feet forward.

He almost missed the little girl that was skipping rather fast towards him. She hadn't been more than five with long blond locks with curls that bounced halfway down her back. John would have missed her completely if it hadn't been for the blood red balloon tied to her wrist that bobbed up and down to her movements.

It took John a second to realize that she wasn't really watching and she was heading into the street. Right in the way of the distracting cabby.

With the woman's thoughts already screaming at him, and the little girl not paying attention John focused. He listened for the moment when the cabby would realize how fast she was going and break or slow down.

No such thoughts came. Instead, her thoughts continued to screamed and rant about a cheating spouse. The cab proceeded to get closer and John felt a shudder go through him ominously.

The adrenaline coursed through him as he saw the accident that was about to happen. The little girl barely put her foot on the road below and John was already moving. He reached out grabbed her by the back of her coat and yanked her out of the way.

Not a moment too soon, for he swore he could feel the _whoosh_ of the vehicle speeding by, narrowly missing them.

The doctor and the girl tumbled backwards, John twisted at the last moment and hit the pavement with a _thump,_ all the while he had the girl craddled to protect her from smacking her head against the sidewalk.

It felt like hours but the entire exchange couldn't have happened in more than 10 seconds.

"Amanda!" John heard a woman call. He opened his eyes, not really remembering when he had closed them, and saw a middle-aged woman's face looming over them. John's arms tightened around the girl reflectively as the adrenaline continued to pump through him.

"Mummy!" The little girl- Amanda -exclaimed and John forced himself to relax his arms. He shuffled the girl off of him and helped her stand up.

"Thank you." The woman said heartfully and John watched in shock as she dusted off Amanda's coat. He looked down at the girl and smiled.

"No problem." He answered as the adrenaline started to fade. He put his headphones back in his ears and waited while the adrenaline wore away completely before continuing about his day. As he walked the rest of the way home all he felt was relief, relief that he could save Amanda on time.

John had pretty much stopped second guessing himself at that point and that's when the justification of Rule #1 had been born. (Rule #1 - If it is possible to save a life while still keeping the secret then that life is John's personal responsibility.)

* * *

For months, John had pondered and wondered why he had heard the cab driver's voice so vividly and with no conscious efforts to concentrate.

John had spent hours and hours brooding over the fact that the cabby's thoughts had just suddenly been there.

Eventually, he had exhausted himself and hadn't thought of one plausible explanation. He caved and decided it had been inexperience on John's part and obvious distress in the woman's mind.

Since that incident, John had never really experienced uninvited thoughts like that again.

Well, not until Sherlock came around and literally blew everything he ever knew about his gift out of the water and onto dry land, leaving the doctor flopping like a fish desperate for air.

(However, we still aren't to that part of the story yet).

He had spent the next six months strengthening his ability and learning how to use it. More importantly, how to use his Gift without rising suspicions. This turns out to be one of the hardest part of controlling his telepathy.

Before he could even consider experimenting, John had to cope with the fact that he had the potential to become more of a danger than actual help.  In order to stay away from that, he realized he would need to master his Gift.

Which, in turn, had meant that he would have to use it on people to learn. Which, truthfully, had made the doctor extremely uncomfortable. 

But, he had decided to take a risk and started reading some of London's population. John had observed people causally and it became very apparent that the minds had known of his intrusion. There usually had been some sort of facial twitch or slight frown. In some cases, there had even been a frantic scanning of the crowd, as if the person had the feeling of someone watching them. 

He has not been able to figure out how the brain is able to detect the intrusion and the best he has come up with is a sort of primal instinct.

John eventually mastered stealthiness but it had turned out not to be the hardest part to master.

Tactile responses had turned out to be different and trickier. (When John touches someone, their minds connect and the doctor is able to filter through the person's memories to his hearts content. This type of invasion of the mind doesn't go unnoticed, not to mention the connection sometimes takes a bit of time to make, delving through memories, and then being able to break the connection safely is a tad noticeable.)

Once, John had to break a connection with a comatose patient prematurely and abruptly, causing the patient's heart rate and brain activity to go up innocuously. John had walked away with a bloody nose, dizziness and a migraine (altogether it could have been worse). The patient, who had been in a coma for five years, miraculously woke up the next day all the while asking for a 'blond angel'.

In fact, suspiciously, the whole coma ward seemed to have a rapid spree of waking patients in the next couple of months.

John had worked six months at developing his gift. Learning how to control it, how to read other people's minds, how to master his own physical features to not give away his gift. 

It hadn't been until a whole year had passed that he finally acquired the ability to sustain tactile links without the others' brain becoming suspicious. 

Then, he began using his gift for the greater good.

While this is all going on, John had graduated medical school and had been slotted as blossoming, up and coming doctor. He has always been an ethical and moral man and during all this time had never once cheated. He had humble beginnings and he had never once thought about using his gift to cure patients easier and quicker. 

However, he has always been an ethical man and more often than not he didn't use his gift to cure patients.

He, had to, however, start doubling up on latex gloves when he examined his patients because there had been sometimes, that one set one hadn't been enough to stop the tactile connection.

When he had started residency at St. Barts a couple months after graduation, he had to really tackle his self-control. He had wanted to be a good doctor and really help his patients as Doctor Watson, healthcare professional and not as Doctor Watson, Telepath extraordinaire.

Despite his strong moral code, sometimes, his gift had a mind of its own.

About three months after the Gift's anniversary, a patient's heart rate had started to drop rapidly. John, at the time, had just come onto the late shift and just started to do his rounds. He had heard the beeping and the general crowd of panic and hustled into one of his rooms, already pulling a second pair of gloves on. 

The patient, Mr. Edward Having, had been wheezing and John took a deep breath and grabbed his chart. He  He had been committed for a cautious overnight observation looking for complications of a concussion. There hadn't been any reason for complications like these. John had looked around for the Senior Doctor on staff, but the only people who had bustled in were two other nurses.  He remembers just looking at the patient and then taking a deep breath. Someone had to help this man.

"Mr. Having? Can you tell me what hurts?" John had spoken calmly and with professionalism, while the nurses started to take his vitals. Having's eyes had been wide and scared with his mouth moved, his dark skin paling and stretching as he gasped frantically for air. John ran his hands over the man's scalp looking for bleeding or any sign of missed trauma. The man's eyes continue to look around the room with frantic panic.

Suddenly, there had been a hand on his wrist, the only exposed skin available, right above the edge of his gloves and just below sleeve of his lab coat.

There hadn't been any time to register the touch and its had only been a second there was panic and screams in his head.

_"I can't breath! My chest! My lung! Something's not right. I can't breathe. Help."_

Somehow, shoving aside the screams, John had felt the lack of air through the man's touch. He had gently grasped the man's hand and took a second to break the connection carefully before running a hand across the man's chest.  

Then, Having had gone limp and his breathing had stopped all together.

"His lung's collapsing! Get him into surgery!" John had shouted to the nurses, some orderlies that had just arrived, and anybody who was in the room really. For a second, they had all just stared back incredulously.

"Now!" John had ordered without a second thought and the room started to bustle with movement and the patient had been rushed away, leaving John standing next to the empty space ad he watched them wheel the man away hurriedly.

"How did you know that?" Dr. Thorn, the Senior Doctor on staff had asked him later.

John had been, unsurprisingly, used to questions in situations like this.

"Earlier I saw Mr. Having experiencing very minimal breathing problems and he complained that his chest hurt a bit." John had lied trying to be a vague as possible.

"Could have been an after effect of the concussion?" Dr. Thorn nodded, his eyes intrigued.

"That's what I assumed." John had stated.

"Well, I'm glad we got it this time. Good Job, Watson." Dr. Thorn said with a smile, walking away. John does not like to lie, but keeping his gift a secret is important. With a sigh, John had returned to his rounds.

* * *

Most of the time, John truly avoids his Gift. He avoids the touching and the mind reading. As a doctor he is uncomfortable, ethically, its an invasion of privacy.

That's why he mastered his ability. So he could find the best way to avoid using it.

He wears long sleeves shirts and extra pairs of gloves, he listens to music on a daily basis and he never goes, willingly, into other peoples minds.

It sort of all changed when he decided to go to war.

In the long run, it probably wasn't the best idea, but his dad was a war veteran and proud of it, and there was a need of doctors. So, John finished all his medical training and signed up for duty. He was shipped to Afghanistan within six months.

The first thing that John noticed during the war was the lack of white noise. The fuzzy and incoherent thoughts that had surrounded him in London are non-existent in the desert. It was alarming at first and John thought for a second that he had somehow lost his Gift. He had read the mind of the nearest person, rather clumsily if he admits, to find that it wasn't gone. And, occasionally John will read someone's mind just to reassure him that his Gift is still present. It may be silly but it's not the worse that he could do.

Other than the times when he would occasionally double check that he's Gift didn't leave, he still did try to avoid his ability. Well as much as one could avoid something beneficial in a war zone. The dying soldiers around him and the importance of saving lives sort of trumped his ethics and for the first time, John actually felt the need for his Gift to be present.

Plus, John really couldn't waste the rations and use two sets of gloves on the battlefield.

At first, it was agonizing. John suffered too many bloody noses and migraines but in all fairness he was really lucky. He knew the dangers of the connections he was making, willingly and unwillingly in the chaos of the battlefield. There were multiple cases during those times where he could have been in worse shape. His first tour was hard on him. While he would treat the wounded, he would see flashes of families,women, men, mothers, fathers, and siblings, and he couldn't push them out. They flooded in along with the information of the injuries he was treating.

For the first few months, John cried himself to sleep every night, over the families he had seen, over the death.

But, after six months, John finally stopped fighting the inevitable and intentionally used his ability to save as many lives as possible. He focused on the memories that had to do with the injuries, sometimes pictures of families would pop through, but that only made John more determined to save the soldier he was working on.

It worked, he saved many lives and in turn Dr. Capt. John Watson soon got a reputation. He became popular on the battlefield, and people would always joke that if they got shot they wanted Dr. Watson to treat them.

He didn't even feel guilty about using his gift after that. He saved countless lives, three times what was normal for an average army medic.

In the middle of his second tour, everything went downhill. He got shot and invalided home.

Upon returning home, John was immediately unhappy, he felt useless and his headaches were common due to the noise. He felt himself wasting away and worthless.

A week back in London, John fainted walking to his new flat. The white noises of the London population was to much for the doctor after not hearing it in the sands of the desert. He woke up in the hospital, he had been unconscious for two days. He immediately checked himself out against the doctor's wishes. On his way out he ran into Mike Stamford...


	2. Angelo's?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set a couple months after John and Sherlock move into Baker Street.

 

 

 

_"JOHN!"_ The doctor flinches, jostling his computer on his lap.

He almost gets up for he has a somewhat unhealthy obligation to come when Sherlock calls.

Growing impatient to a man who actually didn't even speak, John raises himself slowly out of his bed and makes his way down the stairs, listening for the eventual call.

Sherlock Holmes is an interesting creature. When he first entered the lab with Mike Stamford all those months ago, all the white noise of London had just stopped.

John's brain went blank and he remembers being frozen in place. He couldn't help but open the link at some point and listen to the man's brilliant deductions. He even handed the stranger his phone at some point all the while beign silent _in lieu_ of the silence.

John didn't even realise until his new flatmate had left the room that the stranger was the cause of the silence in his head.

As soon as the detective strolled out of the room, his coat following melodramatically, the white noise and mumbling thoughts came back, almost overwhelmingly, it took the rest of the day to get used to the noise.

The next time John met with Sherlock, outside of their potential new flat, the white noise ceased again. John took advantage (again) and probed the younger man's thoughts carefully. Sherlock's deep baritone voice echoed throughout his head and his thoughts were scattered and fast. So he could still read his mind, Sherlock just has the talent to be the best pair of headphones ever. John lets the baritone flow through his head until he noticed the detective frowning and knitting his eyebrows. John instantly recognised that look and backed out which caused Sherlock's face to instantly smooth.

John remembers thinking that odd, it's had been years since people could sense his invasion and he knew that he was just as careful, if not more so than ever.

John smiles at the thought. Of course as the day progress and he got caught up in all that is Sherlock and his deductions. And of course, he read the cabby's thoughts outside of Baker Street when Sherlock willingly got into the car and followed them.

Long story short, he shot the cabby and then tried to push into Sherlock's mind to see if he was going to take the pill but by the time he focused on it Sherlock's mind was going a mile a minute boucing from observation to observation.

John had to leave to dispose of the gun anyway.

_"JOHN!"_ The soldier remembers flinching when he heard Sherlock call his name in his head. The detective was sitting in the ambulance with that ridiculous orange blanket while John was patiently waiting by the police tape.

Sherlock stopped talking abruptly when he had deduced that it was John who had shot the Hope.

That was the first time the detective penetrated John's barriers, just like the woman cab driver back when John saved the little girl all those years ago.

At that point, John should have known that Sherlock would have a knack for infiltrating his mind uninvited. The man has no physical boundaries, why would mental ones be any different?

Sherlock, still, is the only one who has the ability to unwillingly call out to John, getting passed his barriers everytime. Surprisingly, the detective is completely oblivious to both his mental callings and John's gift in general. The doctor is amused that the World's Only Consulting Detective is unable to deduce John's ability.

Most importantly, the soldier finds it a relief, who knows how Sherlock would react. The genius would probably kick John out for being a freak. Or, the younger man would hand the doctor over to Mycroft, John shudders at the thought of being the elder Holmes's test subject.

"John!" The doctor slams back to the present as he hears Sherlock shout from the sitting room just as he enters himself.

The robe-clad genius is laying haphazardly on the couch as he opens his mouth to call again before setting his eyes on John. "Oh. Good. You're here and you're fast." Sherlock says looking back to the ceiling.

"What do you want?" John asks moving to the kitchen out of habit.

_"Phone."_ Sherlock's demand echoes through John. He sees the phone on the kitchen table, reaches for it and turns to head back to the couch absentmindedly,

"Phone," Sherlock says as John is already halfway there. Sherlock takes the phone and John heads back to start the kettle.

John stills, realizing what had just happened, _"Come on Watson, you have to be less obvious."_ He chastises himself at his stupidity and obviousness as he habitually makes two cups of tea.

_"Maybe he just thinks you know his needs."_ John tries reassure himself as he goes back into the sitting room. He decides to drop all of his tension about the situation and refuses to call anymore attention to his slip up, that would just make Sherlock more curious.

John places Sherlock's mug, the detective texting to rapidly to notice, on the coffee table in front of him while John sits on his chair and graps the newspaper in the process and begins reading.

"We've got a case." Sherlock says bluntly after a few minutes.

"Oh?" John says half listening. "You don't seem very excited." He adds, looking up from the paper.

_"Dull."_ He hears in his head, not really sure if its Sherlock's thought or if he just knows the detective really well.

"Dull." Sherlock says flatly and John sighs.

"Then why are you taking it?" John questions, his full attention onto Sherlock. The detective is now standing up, his arms crossed.

"Aren't you glad that I'm just leaving the flat." Sherlock huffs annoyed, walking away to get changed.

"Fine, fine. I suppose you're right." John calls after him. "You haven't left the flat in three days." John remarks closing the paper and moving to the kitchen, chugging down his still hot tea to avoid wasting it.

_"Dull."_

"I don't see whats the difference between being bored outside and being bored inside the flat." Sherlock says, walking swiftly into the kitchen, making John jump slightly at his sudden appearance.

"I don't know fresh air and all of that." John responds turning to face the genius.

_"John._ " John hears the contempt and 'idiot' tone even in his head.

"The air is just as fresh inside the flat as it is outside." Sherlock says petulantly.

_"I win."_

"Fine." John says waving his arms in the air. "You right, you win. Where to?" Sherlock grins.

"Lestrade texted the address. Come along, John." The genius states sweeping out of the room, grabbing his coat and scarf on the way out.

_"The game is on."_ John hears and sighs and follows wordlessly.

* * *

They arrive at the crime scene and it's tumultuous with activity. Usually, the incoherent and muffled thoughts of the crowd would have been too overwhelming for John, but with his own personal silencer, he's able to follow the detective under the police tape and into the crime scene completely headache free.

This is John's favorite time of day, because it's only during crime scenes that he indulges slightly.

He opens up his mind carefully and lets Sherlock's mind flow through the invisible link. He rarely ever reads Sherlock's mind, he respects the man's privacy too much (although that doesn't seem to be a mutual thing based on the amount of times the genius has burst in to the bathroom while has been showering or worst on more than one occassion). 

When he does break and read Sherlock's mind, it's only when the younger man is deducing.

Today is no different, John's curiosity wins and he soon finds himself leaning against the door frame while listening to Sherlock's deductions as they flow gracefully into the doctor's mind. All the while, John keeps a stoic and patient look on his face.

John is always amazed when he hears Sherlock thinking. His thoughts are well formed but scattered, fast. The doctor lets the thoughts and observations flow around him happily.

From what he can gather, the woman in front of them was an adulteress. She had been hiding from her husband who found out she was having multiple affairs, according to the rings that Sherlock is thinking about currently. John drops his eyes to the areas of the body as Sherlock calls them out in his mind, deducing their reasons and motives behind certain items on the woman's body.

John gazes at the woman's ankles when Sherlock notices the dirt, John follows the detective's line of thought. He moves onto the shoes. They are not expensive but comfortable. There's also dust on her jacket.

John revels in the pure genius. He loves this part of Sherlock, his mind is truly amazing. A sudden feeling pulls at John, a pleasant feeling. A familiar feeling of want and desire that he usually supresses. 

Sherlock thoughts and following movements stop abruptly, a frown begining to shown on the genius's face. John knows that expression and immediately closes the connection. He got caught up in listening again, not paying attention to how long he had been listening.

The detective could feel an unusual intrusion, Sherlock could feel John, even if the genius is unaware that it actually is John in his brain.

After a moment of Sherlock analysing what's left of John's intrusion, the detective continues roaming around the body. John stays out and doesn't listen this time.

_"John."_

_"Here we go."_ John thinks to himself and remains still, waiting until he is actually called this time. He does not want a repeat of this morning.

"John, what do you think?" Sherlock asks, looking up at the doctor with curious eyes.

The doctor waits a few seconds and then walks over to the body, leaning down close to the lifeless corpse. He scans the victim, looks are her fingers and opens her eyelids. Once he sees the lifeless dark brown pupils of the woman before him, he sighs and closes the eyes.

"Asphyxia, petechial hemorrhage around her neck, not to mention the finger-like bruises." John rattles off and Sherlock listens. "But her eyes are closed." John states quietly as an afterthought.

"Well done." Sherlock comments, sounding actually impressed. _"Remorse."_ The detective thoughts say and John silently agrees.

"Why is it important that her eyes are closed?" Lestrade asks, standing at the door way.

"Remorse, she knew the killer." John starts, "It wasn't her husband though." he adds caustiously while casting a sideways glance at Sherlock who's eyebrows are raised questioningly.

"What? I know things." John defends after looking at the disbelieving look that the detective is wearing.

"How do you know it's not the husband?" Sherlock challenges. John's eyes cast down sheepishly.

"I don't know. It just seems to easy to be the husband. It's too obvious." John states.

_"Impressive. Always surprising."_

John tries to stop the smile, he really does, but his grin betrays him and the doctor lowers his head to hide it. He coughs a little to try and cover it before standing up all the while avoiding the detective's eye.

_"Could you be anymore conspicuous today, Watson?"_ John accosts himself.

"You're methods aren't necessary following the lines of evidence and logic but you are right, John. It wasn't the husband." Sherlock says standing. "You are looking for one of her lovers. Probably one who was in love with her." Sherlock adds walking out of the room.

"Wait, how?" Lestrade questions as the detective strides past him and down the stairs.

"Remorse, the killer was remorseful so they closed her eyes." John clarifies. "It indicates that the killer felt guilt. He probably loved the victim."

"Oh my god, you are turning into him." Lestrade chuckles, running a hand through his silver hair.

"That isn't a bad thing." Sherlock calls from the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes, it is." Both Lestrade and John say at the same time. Sherlock's eyes narrow at the two of them.

_"Dull."_

"Come along John," Sherlock snaps ascending the stairs again, heading right to John.

"Lestrade, call me when you have a list of her lovers. It's on her phone in her pocket." Sherlock chides, grabbing John's hand tugging him along. John feels the spark of a starting connection, but it quickly dies. Thank god he remembered the thick gloves when they left.

"Sherlock." John hears the DI yell after him as they leave the flat and jump in a cab.

_"It's six o'clock, it's dinnertime."_

"Hungry? Angelo's?" John asks nonchalantly.

"If you are." Sherlock shrugs noncommittally.

* * *

Dinner passes by without any distractions of the telepathic kind. Sherlock doesn't even unknowingly sends thoughts his way. It is nice and, dare John think, blissful.

Of course, this doesn't last for long.

Naturally, tonight it's John's lucky day and he get to be mugged on the way back to Baker Street.

Of course, fate would pick this day, this night, to be the catalyst.

John doesn't know it, but this catalyst will break Rule #10, the rule that states Sherlock Holmes must never find out.

John and Sherlock are walking, their bellies full, and talking as they make their way back to the warm confines of Baker Street. Well, its more the detective is prattling away about one of his new acid experiments that he could now get back to, while John follows half a step behind. The doctor listens, with a little bit more enthusiasm then necessary. This is how it always is with the detective. John listens to him ramble so he isn't distracted enough to listen to the genius's mind.

John feels a hand on his mouth suddenly.

The connection is instantaneous and uninvited, John doesn't even shout or try to get away, he can't. He eyes become unfocused and blurred as flashes burst through his mind at rapid pace. He can feel himself physically bucking against the arms snaked around his torso and arms, to no avail.

The doctor futilely wrestles with the link as strong images barrage John's mind, practically immobilizing him. Pictures spread like wildfire, throughout his brain. He sees a young blond girl, about nine with straight locks, she is sitting at a kitchen table doing homework. A woman stands at the stove, smiling as the girl rambles.

John tries to shake his head to dispel the images. The pictures blur and then John sees a man, has to be an addict, buying drugs off the street.

John's mind jumps again, the woman from earlier is screaming. Her words are jumbled but loud, so loud John groans and goes limp in his attackers arms. He doesn't know where he is at, he doesn't know if Sherlock noticed the lack of his presence. All of John's strength is fading as the very strong and very unpleasant link continues.

John vaguely thinks that he has never had a connection this strong before and another picture of the man emerges, this time he is surrounded by four other men. The group is beating up a couple in an alleyway. John is forced to witness the memories with distaste. The man and his buddies roam over the couple, robbing them of their money and belongings. The group of muggers leave the woman and the man, bruised and bleeding as they run away. John struggles slightly, disoriented and not sure how much time has passed.

_"John!"_

John's thoughts are faintly distracted by the detective's worried baritone. The doctor sees more and more memories of muggings and brutal beatings, they light up his brain uninvited.

_"John!"_

The attackers grip loosens slightly and the doctor instinctively bucks against the human restraints with sudden force. John shakes the hand over his mouth causing it to fall away. He pulls against the two arms around him. The muggers, caught off guard, let go of John without warning and he falls unceremoniously to the ground.

The link is severed immediately and without preparation. John screams in pain. He can see the flashes of memory, the little girl and the couple getting beat up, they streak across his mind. He doesn't move, he feels the cool brick against his body, as he lays curled on his side.

John's head is on fire, he writhes in agony at the severed link. The doctor hears mumbles above him. He feels hands roaming around his body, each touch sending more images to his brain. His defenses are down, the muggers touches are able to link through his clothes, its faint and normally wouldn't be painful, but every touch feels like a burned memory on his mind, imprinting fire of torture and pain on his mind. Inconsequential memories streak through the doctors brain, flashes of women, sometimes places, the tube, a chair in the middle of a room with blood around it, a different little girl, a man smiling warmly down with crinkling icy blue eyes.

John screams out in pain, he feels the blood flow down his face and he knows that this is 'a bit not good'. This is the worse he has ever experienced. John can't think, the memories invading and bewildering the doctor. Suddenly the hands are gone, one by one. John writhes on the ground, the torture splitting his head open, he is twisting and turning. He suddenly realises that he needs to get away. He wonders where Sherlock is? Did they get him too? Was he hurt?

With the sudden thoughts about Sherlock, John tries to push the pain away, he rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up. For the first time since he was grabbed, John opens his eyes. He is met with darkness. He stands up and immediately pitches to the wall. Cool brick comes in contact with the pads of his fingertips as he leans heavily on the wall. He looks down and sees the waterfall of blood flowing out of his nose and staining his shirt. John tries to breath deeply. A burst of mumbled white noise that he isn't used to, enters his thoughts overwhelming him. He falls to the ground again, his bad shoulder hitting the muddy ground with a painful thud, screaming in pain, rocking back and forth in the muddy pavement below.

_"John!"_ He _hears_ Sherlock before he actually hears him. Even with the pain, the left over flashes of memory (which are new to John), and the thoughts of London, John can still hear Sherlock's worried thoughts.

As loud as he can muster, "I'm here." But it comes out weak and feeble. The doctor tries to turn towards something, light maybe, the entrance to the alleyway. He sees darkness and memories everywhere. The doctor brings his bloodied hands up to his temples and squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the pain and the memories.

Hands are on him again, John screams out in agony. Flashes burst through his mind, nothing stops, the line of memories blur. He screams until the flashes stop. He can feel the leftover warmth of a hand that was placed on his cheek.

"John. It's me." He hears Sherlock say, the tone unusually worried. The doctor writhes in torment. He opens his eyes and looks at the liquid smoke. Sherlock's eyes are worried and full of concern, distress and anxiety. He senses Sherlock's hands moving towards him again and he yelps. "Just-Just don't touch me." John strangles out. He can feel the dizziness starting and the alley spins.

_"It's a good thing I'm on the ground."_ John thinks darkly, before his passes out.

* * *


	3. You Dumped Ice Water On Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> Thanks for reading.  
> Any mistakes are my own.  
> Quincy

John is surrounded by darkness. All consuming and frankly terrifying. He loses track of how long he's left in the dark.

He's, surprisingly, fully aware of being unconscious. It's really the only time when he can't really read minds nor hear the white noise of London. 

However, nothing really saves him from the tactile connection.

John's able to measure time only when flashes of memories hit him without notice.

The thoughts hurt, spiking his mind and leaving him in constant turmoil. He struggles constantly to try and break the links carefully but it's useless, and after many tries, John gives up. Instead he focuses on trying to break the links safely to prevent the most damage.

He vaguely remebers the first memory, and guess its probably from when he was lying unconscious in the alleyway.

It was a woman and she was definitely Irish, given her accent. In the memory she had been getting ready for work, her uniform white, crisp and clean. John had seen the blue medical patch on her arm designating her as a paramedic of some kind. She had straighten her uniform, tugging the creases out while smileing with pride. John remembers feeling the warmth and determination radiate from the memory.

It had soothed him. Then the link had disappeared abruptly while sending waves of suffering throughout the blackness, causing John great pain.

Through the next some odd hours or days (John has no sense of time), memories flash through his brain at random and painful intervals.

A woman holding hands with a man. A mother scolding a teenage girl. A man meeting up with another man at a hotel.

The pictures of tainted memories go on and on. Each time he tries to break the connections carefully and only sometimes it works, other links sever too quickly and leave him trapped in his own pain.

The next burst of memory is of a man holding his medical degree certificate with pride. He is smiling in a robe and graduation cap, surrounded by people. More memories shift with the man, following through his life, his marriage, his patients and their smiles. John works at severing the link carefully and internally sighs with relief when the memories stop and the pain subsides temporarily.

The memories flash intermittently for a while and John muddles through the darkness in confusion and boredom, nothing to differentiate between the pain and dull throbs.

Suddenly there is a very strong and very immobilizing image that jumps into his brain.

A man who's in his early forties with graying and receding hair is standing over a woman. The woman's eyes are lifeless and blank, her dark hair a direct contrast to the bright, blue blouse she's wearing. Blood trickles from her head and down her neck to create a pool of crimson around her, staining the linoleum beneath her.

John doesn't struggle, he  _can't._ The link is too strong, stronger than usual and it immobilises the already unconscious doctor. The memory has to be fresh or particularly daunting based on its sheer vividness and power. He spends a little more effort trying to memorise the man's face once John's brain registers the bloodied bat in the man's hand.

He can hear the _drip, drip, drip,_ as the spilled blood slides off the wooden edges of the bat.

About as quickly as the memory came, it leaves without any preparation on John's part.

Then, John's head explodes (metaphorically of course), as he mentally writhes against the agony. The entire time the cold, dead eyes of the murdered women stay fresh in his mind, torturing his subconscious. 

Abruptly, all thoughts cease and John finds himself falling into an exhausted, deep slumber where no thoughts can penetrate, and for the first time, he's unaware as he sleeps.

* * *

 

When John floats up to the surface of unconsciousness, its slowly and to random memories floating around in his mind. As soon as he's aware, he tenses caustiously against the intrusions. 

It takes seconds for the doctor to realize that the memories are pain free and John mentally sags in relief. He ponders the floating images, not really recognizing them at first. They are all jumbled together and happening in rapid concession, like a disjointed movie stuck on fast forward while the scenes play in random order.

It takes awhile but eventually John is able to focus on the movie-like images and slow them down significantly. The memory he focuses on just happens to be a coincidence.

It starts with a man sitting at an elevated kitchen table. His short blonde hair damp and dripping, but his lips are curling into a smile. It takes an embarassingly long time for John to recognize the man from the memory as himself. He's eating his usual jam on toast while sitting in Baker Street. He doesn't remember this particular event but this is his routine breakfast so it could be any day of the week.

Before John can do anything about it, the fast forward button is pushed and the memories speed by again.

John lets the confusion settle in the overbearing darkness of his unconsciousness as he watches the blurring lines of memories mingle. 

There's another pause in the movie and the image shows John again. This time he's leaning against the entry to Baker Street, out of breath but smiling. 

A thought suddenly clicks and he curses himself for being so thick.

These aren't just anybody's memories, they belong to Sherlock.

Although to be fair, John's never touched Sherlock without a layer of gloves or clothing between him. Mostly because of the rules but there's also a tiny part of him that's been apprehensive of just what exactly goes on in Sherlock's head.

And there's also the part where Sherlock already has a nasty habit of pushing John's mental boundaries and adding a tactile connection to the mix could have all sort of problems. No, it's best not to open up a tangible bound.

 _'Or it was, guess it's too late now.'_ John thinks as he lets the thoughts play on fast forward again. 

It takes John a second longer to find the really confusing part of the entire situation. Why aren't Sherlock's memories hurting him?

The entire time through John's unconsciousness, the detective's thoughts have started and stopped abruptly and without warning, and John hasn't been able to prepare himself for a careful break yet.

Speak of the devil, the thoughts suddenly vanish and instead of the pain that John's expecting there's nothing but a cold drift through the darkness, unpleasant and uncomfortable but painless. 

_"Why?"_ He asks over and over with silence as his only response.

John sits in the quiet, dark space for awhile longer as he wills himself to wake up. Sherlock's thoughts come and go and John is bored and lonely regardless.

Suddenly he feels a physical pull, and his mind reels as his stomach makes flip flops like it's joyriding on a rollercoaster.

A string of memories rapidly blur his mind, and Sherlock's warmth is back but there's something different this time. The physical pull is beckoning him, and he doesn't resist it too much. He's almost to the point where he can wake from the dark nightmare when there is a sudden jolt of ice cold water all over him. 

The shock pushes him straight to the world of the conscious. He shoots up in his bed, his eyes opening with a loud gasp and cold water dripping from his form. 

It really shouldn't be a surprise to see Sherlock standing next to his bed with an empty bucket in his hand.

* * *

"You dumped _what_ on me?" John asks incredulously, trying to decide whether to be amused or absolutely livid. He's walking out of the en-suite bathroom, towel drying his hair and dressed in new, dry clothes. 

"Ice water." Sherlock adds with smug nonchalance, like its an everyday occurance to him. Oh yes, let's dump cold water on an unconscious patient, it must be a Tuesday.

"Ice Water." The doctor states as he stares at the younger man waiting for an explanation. Half a minute passes and the detective doesn't even acknowledge the weirdness of the situation. John forces a sigh and walks to his bed.

"Why?" John asks slowly and impatiently while he looks at Sherlock who's just sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. John resists the temptation to choke the frustrating bastard out.

"It's perfectly logical." Sherlock starts sitting up a bit in that excited way he does. "When patients are comatose in order to get them out. One is supposed to dump a bucket of ice water to shock them out of their unconsciousness." His eyes are bright and eager. 

John only stares incredulously back for a few seconds, wondering just how mad his flatmate is. 

"First of all, that's an old wives tale and that isn't even how it works." John says firmly whilst shooting a glare at Sherlock. "And second, I wasn't even in a coma!" He adds with a yell of exasperation. 

"Well, I was bored." Sherlock remarks as he sits back a little and starts to study his cuticles shamelessly. 

"Oh, you were bored? Of course." John says sarcastically with a huff of aggravation and moves further onto the bed to get comfortable. Unsurprisingly the nurses had been very unhappy with the events of John's jump back to consciousness going by the screams between them and Sherlock while he had been drying off in the bathroom. They put dry sheets on his bed _and_ didn't kick the detective out, so they couldn't have been too upset with Sherlock.

 _"Well, I don't know what you are on about,"_ The detective's thought huffs before he says out loud, "You woke up, didn't you?"

"It was unnecessary Sherlock." John says with long suffering patience and Sherlock just glares.

_"Idiot."_

"There was no logical reason for you to be unconscious." The genius comments off-handedly while looking at the doctor suspiciously.

Of course John knows there's nothing wrong with him. Just like before, he's only in the hospital because of his Gift. It more than likely knocked him unconscious with his body and mind dealt with the stress and trauma of the attack. 

"You gave the hospital staff a scare when they couldn't find damage." Sherlock states a little too calmly, "You looked like you had been stabbed." John looks up from where he had been gazing distractedly at his hands to meet gray eyes. 

A memory bursts into John's mind and he tries not to wince at the slightly tramautic image of him laying all bloodied in an alleyway. There's also a steady stream of terror and concern accompanying the picture as well.  John can only look away from Sherlock in guilt.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He says trying to remain stoic and not wring his hands together sheepishly like he wants to. 

_"What?"_ Sherlock's confused thought pushes into his mind. 

"It's not your fault." Sherlock states simply as his face frowns with confusion. 

_"Shit. Get it together._ " John tells himself.

"It was just a nosebleed." John states while the genius unintentionally pushes an image of his own shirt obviously soaked in John's blood.

 _"Just a nosebleed?"_ Sherlock questions in his mind and John remains still.

"It was a bit terrifying with that amount of blood." Sherlock struggles to say with vulnerable concern in his voice. John's head snaps up and he stares at the detective in mild surprise. 

"Oh, come on, you know I'm not good at..." Sherlock starts before adding a mental, " _feelings,_ " and schruncing up his noise like he's smelled rotten cheese. 

John doesn't stop the chuckle that escapes his lips.

Sherlock sighs. _"Dull."_

"All the same, it's nice to know you care." John says, lightly.

"You know that you are imperative to my work, John." Sherlock says but his eyes are downcast, almost sheepishly.

"I'm not hurt and it all turned out fine." John comforts regardless, reaching a hand out to Sherlock without thinking, only to realize halfway his incredible mistake.

The detective eyes his hand thoughtfully and then smiles and just as John starts to retract his hand subtly, Sherlock reaches out and latches on. 

When they touch the connection opens instantaneously and painlessly. John just stares down at their conjoining hands with shock. 

He's momentarily caught up in the moment as the connection strengths, but remains pleasant. The fast forwarding thoughts that had been present while he had been unconscious are just as ubiquitous and comforting as before. The string of Sherlock's thoughts start to relax John, causing the tension to leave while warmth and comfort to take it's place. 

Before, whenever he has had tactile connections, they had always been uncomfortable and displeasing. Even when he had been the one initiate contact, there had always been a level of distress. He ignores it usually, because when he instigates it's usually for a good reason. When the contact is especially unwelcome, he always feels the same unpleasant feeling but if the connection is broken safely, the feeling disperses with the memories.

That's why is so unsettling to feel none of these troublesome feelings with Sherlock. Instead, he feels the oppsite, safe and warm. This new connection only intrigues him while tranquilizing his tension. 

Suddenly and without warning the flashes stop and John's gaze automatically goes to their joined hands and frowns. The thoughts are gone but they still remain connected. 

 

_"John."_

He involuntarily blinks at the thoughts intrusion and looks up at Sherlock, trying to keep the confusion out of his face.

But, why is he not seeing Sherlock's memories?

John, completely unaware of the trickiness of the situation, decides to probe the detective's mind slightly. He tries to bring up memories from within Sherlock's mind but nothing comes. _"_

 _Shit,"_ John thinks to himself and Sherlock frowns causing the doctor to pull out and stop his digging. He breaks their hands apart as subltly as he can, shifting to make it less obvious. 

The pair sit in silence for a bit and John wonders at the bizarre connection. They were touching but John couldn't pick out the thoughts he wanted.

Why?

 _"John. I know you can hear me."_ It takes everything in John's power to remain still and not twitch slightly and part of the doctor wants to laugh. It's just so Sherlock. There is no question in his thought, just a statement. He  _knows_ John can hear him.

John's so fucked.

 _"But how does he know?"_ John's thoughts ramble, trying to remain austere

 _"John. Answer me."_ The command in Sherlock's thoughts is unmistakable and it takes everything in John's power to not give anything away. 

_"Stay strong, Watson."_ John thinks to himself as he franctically tries to find a subject to talk out loud about.

 _"It's a bit too awkward of a silence for you not to be hearing me."_ Sherlock says smirking, looking straight into John's eyes.

 _"Don't answer, don't answer."_ John repeats to himself and completely at a loss for words. _  
_

 _"Fine,"_ He hears Sherlock in his mind. John sighs with cautious relief, maybe the man will give up?

He finally finds a subject to talk about, the events leading up to the attack, (because he finds himself without any recollection of the time) when a warm hand lands itself on his cheek.

"Sherlock!" John yells, "What are you doing?" He gasps out just as the thoughts start to invade. These thoughts seem slower and more deliberate. They fade in and out and give John enough time to watch and analyze them.

Memories surge and they're mostly about the two of them. There's some of them walking down the street, into NSY, talking to Mycroft. There's another image of John complaining about the body parts in the fridge.

It's memorizing. These thoughts and pictures are so massive and complex, nothing like John's ever witnessed before, especially from Sherlock. This isn't usually how his brain works, it's muddled and rapid. These thoughts are slow and languid.

Why?

Why is this stream of thoughts different? How is Sherlock slowing them down? And why? Why are they slow now?

"Are you controlling that?" John asks before he can think. He gasps stupidly at his own question. "I mean..." John starts but there's no lie waiting for him, he has nothing.

He's so screwed.

Sherlock smiles and John tries to dislodge the detective and move away but Sherlock's other hand grips John's empty cheek and the thoughts suddenly stop. He can feel the warmth of the genius's hands on his cheeks but there are no memories to accompany the touching. 

None of this makes sense and John can feel the rising panic within him.

He reaches up to grip Sherlock's wrist and pushes the confusing hands away, freeing his cheeks. He wants to jump off the bed, run out of the hospital, hide in a hole, anything really. He just needs to get away. 

John seems to be frozen because even now, when John's the one intiating contact on Sherlock's wrist there is still nothing. He's looks in the younger man's eyes wildly, his eyes bright with panic. 

He's overwhelmed and he starts to breath rapidly. He pushes Sherlock's wrists away and does get off the bed. He eyes the door but instead starts to pace around the hospital room. 

_"I knew it."_ John startles at the sudden thought and then ignores it completely. He's too focused on his own mind that's prancing around in confusion. 

_"John."_ Why didn't he see anything when they touched?

 _"John."_ How can the detective control his thoughts? How can he control what John does and doesn't see?

 _"John."_ How can Sherlock know?

 _"John."_ Why doesn't the connection hurt with Sherlock?

_"John."_

"For Christ sake, Sherlock, what?!" John screams with irritation and annoyance evident in his tone and his pacing form.

Its when Sherlock doesn't answer that John finally looks up from the floor to see a familiar devilish smirk.

"Shit." John says out loud as he closes his eyes. The detective boldly crosses the room maneuvering around the bed to stand in front of John but also careful not to touch him.

"I knew it." He states, his eyes are alive and bright. _"I knew you were interesting."_

"Never like this," John states and Sherlock's eyes light up in, dare he think it, glee. _"Not dull."_

"Yes, definitely not dull." John states defeated, not even bothering with pretenses, he knows, why hid it now?

He's so, so screwed.

 


	4. You're Not A Freak

John and Sherlock stand in the middle of the hospital room just staring at each other in silence.

Both of their hands are flexing, Sherlock's in excitment and John's tension.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's thought is on repeat in John's head but he's choosing to ignore it.

"Are you listening?" Sherlock asks out loud as John breaks eye contact for the first time in several minutes. He takes to pacing around in a tight, stressed line beside his bed. 

"No, I'm not." John sighs and the detective huffs in annoyance.

"You can turn it off?" Sherlock asks with genuine surprise. Guess telepathy is the one subject that's unknown to the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Regardless, John shakes his head before answering, "Well, that's not quite how it works." His mind races and his self-doubts overwhelm him. Confusions, sadness, frustration and panic circle John's psyche and John's just waiting for the inevitable moment when Sherlock denounces their friendship. Having a Gift like this isn't normal, not that Sherlock is the epitome of normal but he is human. And any human being would be wary of a person who has the ability to read minds, let alone be around them _and_ share a flat with them.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock questions as his eyes gaze upon John's tense form, but he just shakes his head silently.

"Are you listening now?" Sherlock adds a second later with hopefulness in his voice.

"No. I just...." John begins quietly while he chooses not to look at the detective.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and interrupts. "Stop." The sheer command in the younger man's voice causes John to look up and stare at Sherlock.

 _"Whatever silly notion you are thinking is wrong and illogical."_ Sherlock's thoughts ooze reassurement but John's still stuck in his angst.

"No one should want to live with a freak like me," John says painfully and its the first time that's he's called himself a freak out loud. Normally its snuggled deep in his mind and only comes out to the surface of his thoughts on the days that are dark with fears and frustrations.  deep-rooted in his mind only to be thought on the darkest of days. However, it still remains the truth and if anything Sherlock deserves the truth.

"You are not a freak." The younger man states with a huff of annoyance and throws in an eye roll for good measure.

 _"I would know."_ The thought slips into John's mind and the doctor immediately softens.

"Sherlock, you're not-" John starts but suddenly Sherlock is speaking over him hurriedly.

"This doesn't change anything." Sherlock says with a glower as if daring John to continue the sentence he started.

"You aren't, ya know?" John says because it's true and important that Sherlock know that. There's silence for a few minutes before John sighs again.

"Are you sure?" The doctor ask as he moves to sit on his bed comfortably. He's exhausted now after the stressful conversation.

_"Sure about what?"_

"About living with somone who can know what you are thinking?" John replies without hesitation really not caring how much Sherlock knows now.

And because he's staring down at his hands while he says this, he misses the huge grin and look of joy that spreads across Sherlock's face.

Sherlock tampers down his excitment and rebuts with "Can you hear me all the time?"

"No, that's not really how it works." John shakes his head and looks up to the detective.

"Then it's fine. Historically speaking you have a very high moral standing." Sherlock prattles out and sits down in the chair opposite John while John sort of smiles.

Okay, well, it could be sort of a grimace but its better than moving out which is what he thought was going to happen ten minutes ago.

Sherlock just smiles back and opens his mouth to assault John with questions.

* * *

 

"Tell me how it works?" The genius asks tentatively, and John rolls his eyes, not falling for that act one bit. He knows what Sherlock looks like when he gets excited. There's a certain brightness in his eyes and a manic expression on his face.

 _  
__"Please."_

That has John scowling slightly, of course Sherlock already found a way to get what he wants. John's already regretting this.

"Git," John mutters before shifting to sit with his back against the elevated bed frame.

The door opens just as John's about to open his mouth to start. A rather attractive nurse walks in and interrupts John's line of thought. Sherlock turns his head in annoyance and glares at the intruder before flopping and slouching dramatically in his chair all the while hoping that she'll do her job fast and then just get out.

"How are you Mr. Watson?" The nurse asks politely.

"Doctor." From his prone position Sherlock mumbles heatedly in annoyance.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson." She adjusts and smiles seemingly unfazed by the six foot form of a sulking detective. "I'm Emily." She introduces and starts checking his vitals but at the same time making obivous and careful adjustments so she doesn't have to touch John.

John is so flabbergasted he can barely put a sentence together. After several minutes of her checking over his stats John finally asks, "Thank you, Emily. Do you know when I can leave?"

"The doctor should come up within the hour to talk to you, he'll let you know." Emily states and her grin is still plastered on her face. She's almost a bit too cheery and it's starting to annoy John. Finally with a small nod and no interruption to her smile she leaves the room.  With a last nod, she leaves the room and shuts the door.

"Finally!" Sherlock yells just as the door clicks shut. "You were saying..." He says glaring at the closed door and making shooing gestures with his hands. His back is back to be straight and he's sitting on the edge of his seat as his enthusiam gets a second wind.

"Hang on," John speaks slowly and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Why wasn't she touching me?" The doctor inquires and looks at Sherlock and then back at the closed door. 

He can't wrap his head around it. Her job would have been easier and way faster if she had touched John.

Surely the staff doesn't know, do they?

_"John."_

John's head snaps back to the younger man in agitation. "Just because you push your thoughts at me, doesn't mean you don't have to talk." He snaps, and he's confused and annoyed and nothing makes sense anymore.

"I beg to differ." Sherlock responds haughtily seeming to be unfazed by John's biting tone. The doctor doesn't end grace that with a response and goes back to spiraling into a panic.

"I told them not to touch you." The detective speaks with a sigh, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"What? Wait...Why?" The doctor's head snaps back to meet Sherlock's cold gaze.

"You reacted badly to touch." Sherlock starts, "I witnessed it in the alley first but you had...fits..when the nurses and doctors touched you."

John can only nod distantly. "You had multiple episodes. The doctors didn't know what to think." Sherlock adds on with a smug expression.

 _"Idiots."_ And John chuckles. _  
_

"So you told them not to touch me?" John asks for clarification.

"It was logical. When they touched you, you reacted. When they didn't touch you, you were fine." Sherlock rolls his eyes. _"Not exactly rocket science, John."_

"Yes, well," John begins with a glare at the genius. "They aren't necessarily equipped to deal with my brain." John adds.

 _"They most certainly are not."_ The thought bounces into John's brain.

It's almost sweet, in a very Sherlockian way and it gives John weird butterflies in his stomach.

"A brain specialist came in," Sherlock begins, completely unaware of John's blushing cheeks, "He touched you and that was the last of that. You had a sufficient freak out and they had to sedate you." There's fierce anger and a even a little concern in Sherlock's voice and John's eyebrows raise.

"Huh," John huffs.

"Well, after that nobody was allowed to touch you." Sherlock spits out with disgust.

"How did you manage that?" John questions curiously.

"Turns out Mycroft has hospital acquaintances." Sherlock answers with disgust, as if the thought of Mycroft helping reeked.

"That must have hurt to ask for help." John chuckles lightly. Sherlock shrugs.

_"You are worth it."_

John's cheek blush again and he ducks his head.

"Wait, was the he balding?" John asks suddenly remembering the murder.

"Yes. Probably because of the affair he was having which his wife assuredly knew about considering that she just recently left him based off the tie he was wearing." Sherlock shrugs complacently, a slight smile on his face. John raises an eyebrow in the detective's direction. _"Oh come, you should be used to it by now."_

John snorts and says, "Pretty sure he's a murderer." Sherlock's eyes go comically wide and he looks at John with surprise.

 _"Oh, of course."_ Sherlock thought echo in surprise.

"The mistress." Sherlock harrumphs and his face goes hard as he gathers his control again.

"If she was a blonde, then yes." John states shrugging. 

"Wait, how do you know? Did you read his mind? What was it like? How did you do it?" Sherlock asks rapidly and his eyes widen again while bounces up and down in excitement.

"Calm down." John scolds, holding his hands up in defense.

 _"John."_ Sherlock whines in his head.

Before anything more can happen the door opens and a man walks in. John vaguely recognizes him from some of the memories he saw while unconscious.

"Hello Doctor Watson, I'm Dr. Marsh." John nods politely and smiles. Sherlock, however, flails back and sighs theatrically, his arms jutted out and legs straight. He looks ridiculous.

"When can I go home?" John questions immediately, turning away from the petulant man-child and eyes his doctor keenly.

"Well, Dr. Watson, you've been unconscious for a day and we are bit worried about it." Dr. Marsh explains looking down at the chart he brought in with him.

"There is nothing wrong with me, Doctor." John remarks trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. "No external damage, abrasions, lacerations or internal bleeding. The nosebleed was extravagant, yes, but not uncommon for me." He continues expertly, this isn't the first time he's been in a hospital post-episode. There's nothing they can do and he just wants to go home to his tea and bed. 

_"This is dull."_

"Still, none of it explains the fact that you were unconscious and remained unconscious for 23 hours." The portly man in front of him says confidently, using his best 'I'm a doctor you have to listen to me' voice.

John sighs, resists the urge to roll his eyes and glances over at Sherlock to see what the genuis thinks of this. No help there, the detective is so interested in the conversation that's his head is back and he's staring at the ceiling in a gaze.

"And I'm sure you've got MRIs and cat scans and still found nothing." John continues, this time more firmly. Dr. Marsh is forced to nod and based on his defeated face, John knows he's won. He does withstand the urge to smile smugly.

Instead he just drive the point home. "This isn't a rarity for me. It's something I'm used to." John maintains direct eye contact with the hospital doctor and adds, "There is nothing to worry about and I'm sure you could use the bed."

Hook, line, sinker. Dr. Marsh sighs and nods.

"I'll get the discharge papers." Dr. Marsh remarks and leaves the room without another thought.

_"Finally."_

"That was so unnecessarily. He expected, stupidly so, for you to tell him what was wrong with you." Sherlock snorts, only moving his hands to stick beneath his chin. 

John glances at the detective with amusement and then lets his eyes dart lazily around the room and the pair of them resting in a comfortable silence.

"Am I ever going to find out?" Sherlock asks impatiently after several minutes, "Or are you just going to make me guess?"

"You never guess." John says in mock appall.

Sherlock huffs and shoots John a glare before sitting up straight. 

"I'll tell you, once we are back at the flat." John smiles. "I would like to leave."

Sherlock huffs and there's a _"fine."_ through the connection but John focuses on the small smirk curling at the edges of Sherlock's lips. 


	5. Disappointingly Cliche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said any mistakes are my own. And there's a bunch. I'm going through and editing the chapters one by one but it takes time. Sorry if its too hard to read.

Within two hours, John and Sherlock are sitting in their respective chairs at 221B Baker Street exhausted but finally home.

Mrs. Hudson had of course fussed over John as they came in, but they quickly reassured their landlady that he was okay and they both retreated to their flat.

She had thoughtfully brewed some tea for the two of them and then let them be so John can convalesce. The doctor lets the tea warm his hands while he relaxes in his chair. He stares into his tea while Sherlock stares at him, all the while barraging him with numeras mental questions that John is fruitfully ignoring.

When John sips the last dregs of tea Sherlock finally speaks up.

"Are you ignoring me on purpose?" Sherlock questions impatiently with a glower in John's direction.

"I'm enjoying my tea." He states simply, smiling innocently at the detective.

 _"John!"_   That's definitely whining and John sighs defeatedly.

"Fine. Fine." John says waving his face before straightening up in his chair, yet still gripping his tea nervously.

Sherlock's moving enthusiastically. He jumps slightly and brings his legs up so he wrap his long, lanky arms around his knees. His expression is maniac and, if John hadn't been used to it, he would classify it as scary.

He can't help comparing the detective to a little kid waiting (im)patiently to hear a story.

John takes a second to probe the detective's thoughts. _"Finally! Finally. Yes. I've waited so long."_   Sherlock's happy thoughts resound in John's mind and he smiles.

The detective seems to still and focus straight on John and the doctor backs out and makes his face neutral.

"Were you just listening?" The genius asks, his head cocked to one side. John's eyes dart away and the doctor nods sheepishly.

 _"I knew it."_ Sherlock's thought screams, breaking the mental barriers. John grips his head at the loudness, grunting in the sudden pain.

"Sherlock! Don't think so loud." John gripes as the thought subsides.

 _"Now you know how I feel."_ John hears, this time more quietly, and the doctor chuckles.

"So, what do you want to know?" John asks.

"Everything!" The younger man squeals and Sherlock immediately clears his throat at the unexpected noise.

John giggles, "Well, where should I start?" The doctor's suddenly a bit apprehensive. He's never told anyone this and its a bit nerve wracking. And even with their talk in the hospital John still has a nagging fear that the detective will hate him by the end.

_"John. Stop thinking and continue."_

"Right." John nods and tries to dispel his doubt by looking out the window at London's skyline. Sherlocks seems so happy, keen and enthusiastic, and he had already assured him once.

 _"Time to trust, John."_ John thinks to himself, swallows thickly, and looks at the detective.

"Where do I even start?" He mumbles to himself.

"Start from the beginning of course," The detective answers in annoyance. "I'm told that's where stories start."

 _"Here goes nothing_." John thinks and takes a deep breath.

"Well, I died." The doctor winces and then shrugs and his eyes fly to the detective's face. 

"You died?" The genius exclaims, his fingers drumming excitedly across his knees.

The doctor nods. "Fell into the Thames and drowned. Someone pulled me out and gave me CPR. I was dead for about three minutes." John remarks candidly and gets lost in the past. "I don't remember much but I think I saw a white light," John continues wistfully, "It was disappointingly cliche, I'm afraid."

The detective doesn't move or blink and John smiles faintly.

"That's when you learned about your telepathy?" Sherlock deduces, his eyes darting with delight.

"Yeah, I guess. It was really confusing in the beginning, I thought I was going crazy." John shudders at the memories of himself wandering aimlessly around the streets trying to block out the thoughts. "All the noise, it wasn't normal and I was positive that I was mad."

"The noise?" Sherlock questions.

"Right," John realises, the detective has no idea what or how John ability works. "I can always hear people," The telepath starts looking at Sherlock, "not in the traditional sense, none of their thoughts are coherent. They're mumbled and completely unreadable, but they are always there. I think of it as a kind of white noise." John states whilst wringing the tea cup in his hands violently. He notices this and puts the cup down before he drops it and rests his hand uncomfortably on his thighs. He can't seem to stop moving and it hasn't escaped Sherlock's piercing glare.

"You can hear people, but not coherently?" Sherlock asks, seeming to understand.

"Yes," John adds for good measure and grabs the tea mug again compusively. "Its not such a big deal anymore."

"What do you mean?" Curiosity seems to have been etched permanently onto the Sherlock's face.

"You, um," John stammers not really sure how this will come off, "You block out the noise." he mutters, rubbing the back of his head with discomfort.

"Me?" Sherlock leans back but his face reamins stoic, assessing. "I silence them?"

_"How?"_

"I don't know." The doctor sighs.

Sherlock seems to contemplate this before thinking, _"Putting it aside for experimentation."_

"Sherlock!" John says with exasperation.

"But if you can't understand them normally, how can you read my mind?" The detective asks completely gnoring John's protest.

"The 'white noise' isn't the only part." John sighs and takes a deep breath, trying to let out all the tension that's building up inside him.

"What are the other parts?" Sherlock questions.

"Well, obviously I can read indidivual minds when I need to. Like now, I know that you're thinking about all the experiments you can submit me too." John glowers before adding, "No." 

Sherlock just smirks and thinks, _"They wouldn't be harmful."_

John puts down the tea cup and crosses his arm, keeping his face firm. "No, Sherlock." He says unwaveringly, he means business.

 _"Fine."_ The genius thinks after a few minutes of contemplation and leans back in his chair, turning his face away from John and huffing with annoyance.

In other words, Sherlock is sulking and John resists laughing at the ridiculous man in front of him.

John, who is used to this type of thing just waits him out. Sure enough, after a minute of quiet and dramatic sulk Sherlock asks, "How do you do it?" 

The doctor's face twists in confusion. "How do I do what?"

Sherlock scoffs like John's being particularly obtuse. "The reading minds! The white noise! All of it, John."

"Oh, well I focus." John says and Sherlock's face twists into a skeptical version of itself.

"You focus?" The dubiousness in Sherlock's voice is purposedly unhindered for a minute before narrowing his eyes at John. _"Of, course. You focus."_ He thinks before a rapid succession of thoughts flow through his brain.

"Yeah. When I focus, I can concentrate on an individual's thoughts. I can read what they're thinking about at that moment." John adds as he rubs the back of his neck, slightly uncomfortable with admitting to the breach of privacy.

"I can sometimes tell when you read my mind." Sherlock states and John blanches with unease.

"I...Sherlock...-" John begins but the detective just raises a hand to stop him.

"In the simplest sense, it's like a finger poking at my brain." Sherlock observes and looks contemplatively at John. 

"Is it?" John asks genuinely curious, "I honestly don't know how it feels for people." He shifts slightly before adding, "I spent a year training myself on my ability and mastering the skill to go unnoticed, and you are the first who's noticed." 

_"Why?"_

"I ask myself that question a lot." John sighs but continues. "Anyway, I'm the one that can initiate thoughts most of the time."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. _"Most of the time?"_

"There has been two experiences when thoughts have broken my mental barriers." John remarks, "One, a long time ago, involved a cabby, her thoughts invaded my mind while I was walking down the street. I ended up pulling at a little girl out of the street, saving her from getting killed by the distressed cabby." John says casting his eyes to look at the mug idly as he remembers the face on the distraught mother and the little girl smiling at him.

The detective says nothing while John reminiscences.

 _"What's the other occasion?"_ The thought comes after a few minutes.

"You." John states simply and grips his mug tightly and looks up into Sherlock's stormy gray eyes. "You frequently invade my thoughts. Usually it's just my name when you need me to do something. Or when you're distressed, other times when you sleep." John comments sheepishly. "There have also been times when your declare your boredom." John proclaims and adds a hasty, "And I don't know why."

Sherlock frowns at the statement and furrows his brows.

"It's not something you can control, at least I don't think it is." John adds quickly.

Yet, Sherlock continues to be silent and his face contorts into his thinking expression and John grows tense in the silence.

It takes every ounce of power for the doctor to not force his ways into the detective's thoughts.

"I try not to look into people's minds unless absolutely necessary." John says trying to change the subject. 

Sherlock's eyes snap up to John's and he raises an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, a crime scene isn't what I would consider a priority." The detective observes and John blushes sheepishly, again.

"I like hearing you observe. Sorry." John says honestly but ducks his head shamefaced.

Sherlock waves it off with a dazed look on his face that turns into a smile. _"I am very brilliant."_

John snorts at the smug dramatics.

They are silent for a mintue before Sherlock's eyes brighten in curiousity again. 

"You never touch people." The detective states bluntly and John's startled enough to fumble his cup before looking at him. "You also tense when someone happens to touch you."

John sighs. Of course Sherlock would notice, he's a bloody detective. He was acutally quite a fool to think that Sherlock wouldn't notice.

"It's, um, its the last part. There's a tactile method." John speaks tensely, wringing his hand against the mug's handle. Sherlock makes a shooing gesture for John to continue so the doctor adds, "When someone touches me, a certain connection, bond gets established. With this link, I can explore every memory, every thought the person has ever had."

This is where it could go downhill. This is where his Gift could be (considered) dangerous. 

"It's it painful?" Sherlock asks suddenly and John stares at him before answering.

"It depends." John breaths out. "The brain's very fragile. Normally, the link offers a slight feeling of discomfort."

Sherlock seems to think on this before thinking, _"Then why do you do it?"_

"Its tolerable. I'm usually prepared for it when I initiate contact." John states, "It's a bit more uncomfortable when someone touches me unannounced because its suprising. The problem lies when breaking the connection. That's when it gets painful." 

"It's why you didn't fight the muggers." Sherlock observes quietly and John nods.

"Yes and no. It was their initial thoughts that were devastingly strong. It immoblized me and I couldn't fight back." John says and tries to hide the shame and self-depreciation in his voice. "The link hadn't even broken yet."

_"What happens when the link is broken?"_

"When I don't prepare myself and the connection gets broken prematurely it sort of traumatizes my brain." John explains, "I'm connected to that person's psyche, their feelings and their emotions. And as long as we're touching, I'm a part of that person. So when the link breaks it's like a little part of me breaks with it." 

"The nosebleeds." Sherlock observes simply and John nods.

_"They eventually broke the link."_

"Yeah," John starts, "I trained myself to have a certain resistance to severed connections, especially when I was learning to be a doctor- there's a lot of touching there. But the thoughts were too strong to begin with and so when the link broke it wiped out all of my barriers with it."

_"That's never happened before?"_

"Immobilising me and then knocking me unconscious with strong thoughts and broken barriers? No. never." John answers. 

_"So, everyone who touched you afterwards...It was painful for you."_

_  
_"A bit, yeah." John says and the detective's eyes narrow again but this time with restrained anger.

"Normally, how do you prevent this from happening all the time." 

"Well, usually I wear gloves." John answers looking down at his tea cup.

_"Ahh, skin-to-skin contact. Of course."_

John smiles and nods. Sherlock stares pensively at the doctor.

During the silence Sherlock's thoughts scream in to the link harmlessly and John listens.

 _"That's why he became a doctor."_ That thought sticks with John and he sets his jaw.

"No." He says looking straight at Sherlock.

_"Ah, no. Too moral to use his power like that. Plus, he was already in medical school two, no three years when he drowned. Stupid."_

John smiles as he stands up to make himself some more tea. Sherlock has to process all the information anyway. 

* * *

Hours pass with Sherlock quizzing him (out loud and mentally).

"So, what happened?" John asks after a lull in the converstaion.

Sherlock's face immediately fell. _"I'm sorry, John."_

John eyes shoot up to look at the younger man.

"Whatever for?" John asks. 

_"I didn't notice right away."_ Guilt coursing through his thoughts. "I looked back and you were gone. I hadn't heard anything."

"It's not your fault, they grabbed me and caught me off guard." John trys to soothe.

"Regardless," Sherlock begins with a dismissive wave, "I back tracked and followed you into the alley." John sees the bricks and trash of the alleyway flashing across Sherlock's suddenly frantic memories.

"I quickly narrowed down the path when I heard you. I could barely hear you but I ran towards the sound anyway." Sherlock sighs, standing up to start pacing the floor. John watches him with curious but sad eyes. He doesn't probe into the genius's thoughts and chooses to let him think to himself.

"When I came upon you...I..if you hadn't been moving I would have thought you dead. Blood was everywhere." John listens and isn't prepared for the flash of memories to penetrate into his mind. Through Sherlock's memories he sees his own writhing form on the ground. He can feels the residual panic and fear that Sherlock had experienced at the time. 

"It's okay," John gasps through the images. "I don't blame you, it wasn't your fault." He trys to stand up and bring his weak mental barries up to fight off the flashes of memories. But the tenacious images float in his mind, causing John's eyes to go unfocused. In the memory, John is forced to witness himself screaming when Sherlock touches him. 

He makes a struggled noise and tries to open his mouth to get Sherlock to stop, but another memory invades his mind too quickly. This time, he watches Sherlock sit down next to John whispering comforting words whilst the paramedic checks John's vitals and moves her hands randomly over his body.

For some reason, John focuses on her flaming red hair, it seems such a stark contrast to the dull brick that surrounded them. He stares at her a bit long before he vaguely recognizes her from some of his unconscious visions.

"She had been Irish." John struggles out as his eyes blur. There are a few more images of blood and the hospital that blur together. He feels the panic, fear, anger, confusion and relief cloud in his mind.

They are so strong. John, through the clogging emotions checks to make sure that he hadn't accidentally probed into Sherlock mind during this exchange.

He hasn't and it confuses John even more. 

"Sh-sherlock." John exhales breathy as the emotions close in on him. They're so overwhelming and John can feel his breathing becoming labored.

Suddenly, the images stop and John's hand shoots out to grab the arm of the chair. He pants heavily hoping to catch his breath soon.

_"John."_

There are warm hands are on his face, and he tenses automatically when the connection opens. Pain doesn't follow and John's eyes look around wildly as he tries to focus. The hands remove themselves abruptly and John shivers with the coldness that's left in their place.

"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asks suddenly and John's eyes finally focus. The detective is kneeling in front of him and he realizes that those had been Sherlock's hands on his face. 

_"John? Did I hurt you?"_

_  
_"No, no. I'm fine." John says heavily and waves his hand. "You just think to loud for your own good."

_"You weren't even looking. How did that happen? Why?"_

John shakes his head. He has no idea what just happened.

"Are you sure that it didn't hurt? I touched you without warning." Sherlock rambles.

"No its fine." John says finally getting his breathing under control. "The tactile connection with you doesn't hurt." John says before thinking, he's been too distracted by what had been going on to filter his brain-to mouth.

There's a sudden movement and the detective swirls around to sit in the chair opposite. He puts himself on the edge of his seat and proceeds to study John like he's the world's greatest puzzle. 

"They did in the alleyway." Sherlock says and tenses.

"All my barriers were down in the alleyway." John reassures. "Any contact had hurt, through my clothes or through the paramedics gloves. It didn't really matter."

_"You saw a flash of the paramedic while you were unconscious."_

"Yes, I saw flashes of anyone who touched me while I was unconscious, including you." John states with a small smile. "Although after the alleyway, the tactile connection I had with you was the only one that didn't hurt."

 _"Why?"_ The thought reeks incredulously.

John just shakes his head in confusion.

"I silence the noise. I invade your mind with my thoughts.  _And_ when I touch you, there's no pain." Sherlock mumbles to himself, seemingly ignoring John for the moment.

"Sometimes," John interrupts, "I can see memories and other times you are completely silent."

_"I have no control over it."_

"To a certain extent you do it seems. There have been multiple times when you show what you want me to see or _don't_ want me to see." John observes. "There are other times when you just silence everything."

Sherlock seems to ponder this for a while before he suddenly reaches over and cups John's cheek. The doctor doesn't flinch and waits.

But nothing happens and John asks, "Are you trying to show me something?"

The detective's face is blank with concentration and doesn't answer him.

"What about now?" Sherlock asks and John looks at him in confusion. "Can you hear me now?"

The link remains silent.

"No there's nothing." John eyes widen in shock and tries to dig into Sherlock's surface thoughts a bit. There's nothing.

"I can't hear you." John states with surprise and Sherlock sighs impatiently.

_"I don't control it then."_

"Are you ready? I'm going to let go."

"Oh." John says. "Yeah it's fine. Um, that's another part. The broken connection doesnt' seem to hurt with you either. Another quirk I guess."

Sherlock's hand falls and he quiets in thought.

"There are too many variables in this." Sherlock says without looking at John. 

"Welcome to my life." John says under his breath but he knows the younger man has heard it.

Then Sherlock's up and pacing again and John, just like before, leaves him to it.

_"John."_

John smiles contently and looks over at him.

"Why do you stay?" Sherlock asks and stops pacing for a second.

"What?" John ask incredulously. 

"I inhibit your Gift." He states and crosses his arms defiantely. 

John laughs before saying "Now, for a genius you really are stupid." He watches Sherlock's nose scrunch up at the term. "Everyday since the day I died, I never thought I would have any sense of normal again. Then you came and in one day, not only saved me from the mundane and horrible life of an invalided soldier, but you gave me silence when I didn't even think I wanted it." John states, feeling vulnerable. "You, in your weird and erratic life, created  a sense of normal."

"Well, that's...terrifying." Sherlock states, smiling.

"Don't I know it." John replies.


	6. Anything to Save the Walls

Nothing really changes in the following weeks.

Business carries on as usual and their friendship remains pretty much the same.

Except for the fact that Sherlock's developed a nasty habit of demanding for things mentally instead of asking for them out loud. Ignoring Sherlock in these instances has become one of John's favorite past times.

It seems that either, Sherlock has gotten better at projecting his thoughts or John has gotten weaker since the mugging. Nowadays, Sherlock's thoughts reverberate in John's head more often than not.

He pushes that thought away constantly and chooses to focus on the day to day.

Like now for instance, it's Saturday and coincidentally John's day off. It would've been perfect if Sherlock had a longer attention span.

 _"I'm bored."_ Sherlock projects, for the umpteenth time that morning, and the doctor ignores him and continues to read the paper. The detective is lazing on the couch in his dressing gown, staring at the ceiling.

_"Bored."_

_"Bored."_

_"Bored."_

"Shut up." John says pleasantly before turning the page.

_"John. Lets do an experiment."_

John finishes the page and turns to the next.

_"John. Experiment."_

"No." John answers distractedly looking at the headline for the page, something unimportant and trivial.

_"BORED!"_

John winces slightly and looks up to glare at the unmoving detective, who unsurprisingly, continues to stare upward. "How can you be bored? We just finished a case last night." His legs are still sore from running halfway across London looking for a murderer.

_"Dull."_

"That was last night. I'm bored now." Sherlock huffs petulantly and flops himself  around until he's face down on the couch.

 _"Oh great, he's going to be doing that all day long."_ John rolls his eyes and sighs, and prepares himself for a tense but thankfully quiet day.

_"Experiment."_

"I told you no. My mind is not a laboratory." John says firmly as he gets up to make some tea. _  
_

_"Dull."_

John huffs as he goes about making tea. He hears some shuffling around in the living room and he's just about to fill his cup when he hears, "John? Where's your gun?"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later and they're both out the door and heading down the street. John has no idea where they're going except that it's somewhere 'experiement worthy'.

It doesn't remain a surprise for too long because they seem to be walking in the directiong of Regent's park.

"I'm only agreeing to this so you don't shoot holes in the wall." John comments reluctantly. He's slightly irritated that the detective can manipulate him so easily. "Mrs. Hudson is going to murder you one of these days."

_"It's a good thing you could read minds then so you can turn her in if she does."  
_

"How do you know I won't help her?" John teases and Sherlock glares at him before looking away, but he can see the barest hint of a smile curling at the younger man's lips. This in turn makes John smile too.

 _  
_They walk a bit further in silence before John declares, "I'm not invading people's minds. Let's get that straight." He may have been coerced into this adventure but he's not going to break his rules for the sake of an experiment.

(Little did he know of the future in store for him)

"You will only be looking into mine." Sherlock says with a smile. Before John can open his mouth to protest, Sherlock breaks out into a dead sprint away from him. 

 _"Stay."_ The thought breaks into John's flabbergasted mind and he obeys out of sheer shock.

He watches as Sherlock turns a corner and disappears from view then looks around the area. The genius has left him in a crowded sidewalk in the middle of London.

Great.

John moves out of the way and leans against the nearest brick wal, trying not to give out creeper vibes.

Minutes pass and John wonders idly what the point of this is. He thinks about just going back home but decides against it. There's no reason to leave a free-roaming Sherlock on an unexpecting London. He sighs and starts to feel a familiar tingling and poking in his head.

 _"Brilliant."_ John thinks to himself sarcastically. The effects of London's mumbles are starting to invade his mind. The annoying incoherent sounds start to gain in noise and John's silently cursing himself for forgetting his iPod at home. He tries to mentally prepare himself for the oncoming slaught when his phone chimes with a text alert.

_I'm 350 meters away to the north. Are you experiencing the white noise yet? - SH_

_How did you get 350 meters in that short of time? Where are you? - JW_

_Irrelevant. I'm right, aren't I? - SH_

_Yes, of course you git - JW_

John grunts frustratingly at the mobile and his head starts to ache.

_"John."_

John jumps and almost drops his phone. He can hear Sherlock's voice clear as day and he whips his head around looking for the younger man. His phone chimes again and John tears his eyes away from the busy street to look.

_Did you hear me? - SH_

_Yes. How far are you - JW_

_"375 meters."_

375 meters. What?

John sighs. Of course the detective's mind can be heard at long distances, yeah, why should that surprise him?

_Couldn't I have stayed at the flat for this? - JW_

When Sherlock doen't answer, John looks around the street and notices the white noise seems to be behaving at a tolerable level. He, of course, can still feel the ache in his brain but it's no longer on the forefront of his mind. And if John isn't mistaken, it seems to be receeding very slowly.

Deciding there is nothing he can do about the white noise and its weird effects at the moment, John takes a chance and decides to read the detective's mind. He's never really done it without being in direct line of sight before but he closes his eyes and focuses. Subtly the white noise seems to fade even more and John opens up a link with Sherlock. 

Flashes flow through his mind. Sherlock must be in a cab looking out the window. He can feel the excitement and joy through the link. He just sees a sign that says 'Hyde Park' before he feels some of the detective's thoughts scolding him.

 _"This is my experiment. Stop that."_ The doctor gives a long suffereing sigh but breaks the link slightly amazed at himself. Hyde Park is over two kilometers away.

He just had a mental connection with Sherlock over the distance of two kilometers.

He doesn't know if he should be feeling shock, relief, or worry.

_I can experiment too. You're over two kilometers away and I can still hear you. This is bloody amazing - JW_

_"I know,"_ Sherlock is gleeful and John smiles. _"I'm sitting on a bench. Do you see the women in front of me?"_ Sherlock question rings through John's mind.

It is all so strange and John can't help his own curiosity so he opens the link again, finding it easier to connect this time around. 

Through Sherlock's eyes, he can see the trees and sidewalks along with people milling around. It's amazing, seeing something so normal through someone else's eyes.

He makes a mental note to try this again later. For now, he focuses on the lady sitting on the bench across from the detective. She's maybe in her early twenties with short, black hair and reading a book peacefully.

Sherlock must be aware of John's presence because the next thing he knows the detective's commanding John to read her mind.

John bulks before typing furiously on his mobile. _  
_

_I told you I wasn't going to do that. - JW_

_"Come on John,_ _just this once. This is a breakthrough."_ Sherlock's voice sounds like that of a three year old and it's not helping him in the slightest.

_No. - JW_

The doctor huffs and seriously contemplates walking back to the flat.

 _"Please, John."_ Sherlock's voice begs and now there's a whole new slew of emotions. Pleading, excitement, and happiness.

It really shouldn't get to the doctor, but it's a rare event to see Sherlock truely happy. And John can _feel_ it which is a whole other thing that he doens't want to think about right now. Still he blames the 'happy' emotion for caving.

_Fine. Fine. You're lucky I like you. - JW_

Reluctance seems to be his go-to feeling for the day but he pushes it aside, (to be honest he's a bit curious himself).

John closes his eyes again and lets the connection flow through him. He tries to extend his consciousness past Sherlock and into the space between him and the woman. 

He's never done anything like this before. He's never tried to latch onto to something tangible with such blind ambition.

It's really not surprising when nothing happens. Nonetheless, John tries a second time. He takes a deep breath and branches out again. He finally gives up after thirty seconds of nothing.

_Nothing. - JW_

_"Hhmm. Interesting."_ He hears Sherlock's mind whirling as he tames his ability back. He remains safely in Sherlock's brain until the detective tells him what to do next.

Sure enough. " _Okay_ , _one more. Find someone around you and listen to them as they walk away. See how long you can hear them for."_

_Sherlock! - JW_

_"For the sake of human science. Please John."_ Sherlock uses the same tone as before and John wants to punch him in his big, happy face.

_Fine. -JW_

_"Have you ever had two connections at once?"_

_No. Now shut up and let me try, git. - JW_

John lifts his head up and scans the crowd. There's a lot of people on the street so he just picks someone at random. There's a man in his early thirties with a child clinging to his hand. She's talking animatedly and making wild gestures with her free hand with the man looks at her with love.

John double checks that he's still in Sherlock's consciouness before latching onto the man.

 _"Here goes nothing."_ John thinks to himself.

He focuses and seconds later he's firmly in the man's mind. The thought stream instantaneously.

 _"I have to get home, cook dinner, and do the washing. I've got to send that email, I cannot forget to send that email. She's so happy. I love it when she's so happy. And she behaved very well today.  Maybe a treat when we get home. God, I hope Carol isn't home. She came home last night smelling of him again. I can't believe her. She doesn't think I can smell him on her. It's ruining us, it's ruining Charlie..."_ The man rambles.

 _"Can you still hear me?"_ John's eyes widen in surprise and he stumbles trying not to lose the man's thoughts. 

_"I bet Charlie would like..."_

He can't believe it. He can hear Sherlock and the stranger at the same time. John focuses and tries to hold both the links as the man turns the corner. He can feel the man's thoughts start to fade in and out and then abruptly they are gone. 

John minds seems to snap like a rubber band and his knees buckle slightly. He has to shoot a hand out to grab the wall and steady himself. The man couldn't have been more than 100 meters away when the connection faded and that thought makes John's head whirl and a slight ache pumps through his head.

It isn't until now that he realizes that the 'white noise' has completely faded.

 _"John!"_ He hears the detective calling for him but the ache in his head and his own distract him.

If the man faded after 100 meters, how can he hear Sherlock from over two kilometers away?

  
John doesn't know how long he's like that, swaying slightly as he grabs the wall like a lifeline. Suddenly, there are hands clasping around his forearms and he lifts his head way to quickly to see familiar gray eyes.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock's face is full of caution and John sways slightly in his grip. Waves of guilt and concern float through the connection and John winces slightly before shaking his head.

"I'm fine." He says hoarsely. "That was brillant." John smiles foolishly and the detective beams back at him. His headache receedes minutely and John pusshes away from the wall trying to gather his bearings.

Sherlock's hands are still gripping his arms.

_"Your nose is bleeding slightly."_

John swipes at his nose absentmindedly and a line of blood smears on the back of his hand. Sherlock fishes in his pocket and hands him a never been opened packet of tissues.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" John asks suspiciously taking the tissues with a nod.

 _"I prepared for all outcomes."  
_ Sherlock turns and walks in the direction of Baker Street.

 _  
_John wipes his nose and shrugs. It's not the worse nosebleed he's had and the ache in his head is fading away. All in all, not bad for his first time.

"I think it was the two connections at once that did me in." John states after a while of silence.  Sherlock nods his head distantly and errant thoughts enter John's mind too fast to see. The detective seems to be thinking through the experiement and analyzing the data. He leaves it too him.

When they get back to the flat, John unlocks the front door and walks inside.

"Was the experiment successful?" He asks when they start to climb the stairs to the flat.

"Insignificant data." Sherlock states out loud and moves to the kitchen absentmindedly.

"Does that mean we have to do it again?" John groans and flops down onto the couch.

"Not necessarily." Sherlock says and he can hear papers shifting as the detective rummages through the kitchen.

"What does it feel like?" John asks after a couple minutes of nothing.

_"Interesting, but results are inconsistent."_

_  
_John sighs. Sherlock's too wrapped up in his mind that he hadn't heard him or he choose to ignore him. Either one is likely. He pushes himself off the couch and moves into the kitchen. Now that's he's asked the question he wants to know the answer.

"Sherlock, What does it feel like when I'm in your mind?" John asks again, a little louder this time and sherlock stops writing on some paper and slowly turns his head towards John with a smile.

 _Uh oh._ John knows that smile. That smile means I've got an experiment and you are my subject.  

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asks suddenly alarmed as Sherlock walks towards him. He starts to back up slowly.

Suddenly, the detective leaps onto John and they both careen to the floor. John grunts in surprise.

"What in the hell-?" He calls but then there are lips attaching to his and he tenses at the touch.

Meanwhile, the connection seems to explode in his mind. It's bursting with rapid thoughts and warm emotions. He sees flashes of Sherlock's memory, him sitting at a park or in the lab at Barts. Images of John laughing and smiling and the two of them running around.

Just as abruptly as it came the contact ceases and John gasps for breath.

"Bloody hell." He pants and feels lips against his neck, suckling in one spot for a second and then moving to a different area of his neck. With each new kiss, a different image flows into John's mind. There are too many to count and John gets lost in them. There are several of him smiling, smiling at Sherlock, smiling at the paper, smiling at the T.V. John hadn't realized he smiles so much. 

Sudden confusion seeps in between the kisses and images.

"Wait, wait." John says and gets his hands (that were previously and intimately holding on to a certain someone's bicep) underneath Sherlock and starts to push him off. The kisses stop and John rolls to the side and sits up.

The detective looks wild with lust but there's also genuine hurt and sadness filling his eyes. John can only just sit there, panting for breath and hoping the shock wears off soon so he can figure out what the hell just happened.

"I'm sorry, John. I-" The detective starts, looks away from him and sits up.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John yells once he gets his breath back. "You can't just kiss me for an experiment." Sherlock ducks his head and scoots subconsciously further away from John. The doctor doesn't see this, he's too busy seething in anger.

He feels used and angry and not to mention a bit turned on, but Sherlock doesn't need to know that. The detective had only used him for a experiment, a way to get data.

"I know, I- just- it started out like that and then it wasn't.." Sherlock stammers, his eyes downcast, fidgeting and he begins to stand up.

"What?" John yells. "What do you mean?"

_"I wanted to kiss you, not because I needed data."_

"That's cheating Sherlock." John says but is still reeeling from the shock.

"Fine, I wanted to kiss you," Sherlock yells and his arms start flailing uncharacteristically. Then he stands and starts to pace angrily. "I've wanted to kiss you for a while but I was just going to touch you and then we fell to the floor and I just couldn't help myself." Sherlock rambles, his movements jerky and nervous.

"You wanted to kiss me?" John asks with thick confusion.

(Really, John should applaud the irony in this situation. Sherlock was able to hide such a big secret from a telepath.)

"Yes." Sherlock says and stills, his hands fall limply to his sides and he looks defeated.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Then Sherlock's turning away to walk out of the room. John's still flabbergasted but he tries to push into the detective's thoughts to see if he's telling the truth. He thinks he would have been successful if Sherlock hadn't been thinking in Italian.

"Since when do you speak Italian?" John calls bluntly but the detective doesn't stop. He jumps up and starts walking over to the retreating genuis. "Wait! I want to kiss you too." John says and this time Sherlock does stop.

His mind goes silent and his body stills. "It's true. You just never said anything or thought anything or acted anything and I thought it would just go away." John continues and grabs the man's hand forcing Sherlock to turn around.The connection opens up with warmth and silence.

There's a look of genuine surprise along with some relief in Sherlock's eyes but overall he seems skeptical. _"You tensed up."_

"Yes. No. I, um, you were touching me." John mutters sheepishly and his eyes fall.

"That's the point of kissing, John." Sherlock states huffily. _"Idiot."_

"No, I mean you were touching me and I wasn't really prepared for it and it immobilised again. I was too swept up in your memories." John says shaking his head and squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"I paralyzed you with my kissing." Sherlock asks quizzically, smirking somewhat.

"Shut up," John scowls, "You know what I mean."

Sherlock sighs and then a split second later he's smiling manically.

"Sherlock?" John asks apprehensively and the detective takes a step closer invading the doctor's personal space.

"I'm afraid I don't know how my brain and your gift are related but I would definitely be happy to try more experiments and gather data." Sherlock states inching even closer to John so he's move is mere inches from John's lips.

"Is that so?" John says chuckling but a wave of nervousness flows through him. He doesn't have time to think on it because Sherlock closes the gap between them but instead of kissing John, he's bending so their foreheads touch.

Images explode in John's brain along with a warm happy feeling that has him closing his eyees in a daze of contentment.

"Are you controlling them?" John asks quietly after watching the images for a while.

"Yes, or at least I'm trying to." Sherlock states and without looking John can hear the concentration in his eyes. , _"Are you seeing the day we are in the hallway after we left Angelo's for the first time? When you found out you didn't need your cane and we were giggling?"_   Sure enough, that same memory flashes through John's mind. Their out of breath laughs and conversation echo throughout the entrance way of Baker Street.

John can't stop himself and suddenly he tilts his head up slightly and mashes their lips together in a heated kiss. 

 _"I'll take that as a yes."_ John doesn't even answer he just grips Sherlock's shirt, twisting the material in pleasure.

Then all thoughts stop and John only feels their bodies together and their lips kissing with passion and heat.

"Are you doing that too?" John asks, breaking apart and they both gasp for breath. Sherlock immediately goes to John's neck and nibbles there while muttering the affirmative.

"How?" John asks as his hands run smoothly down John shirt unbuttoning as he goes.

"Do you really want to worry about that right now?" Sherlock asks, pulling John into another long kiss.

"Not really, no." John pants out and Sherlock grabs him by the shirt and pulls them down to the floor again. They don't get up for a very long time.


	7. Lilacs & Honey

Morning light peaks through the curtains in the doctor's bedroom as John and Sherlock lay together in bed. John's on his stomach with one of his arms laying by his side while the other lies underneath his head acting as a pillow. The detective is curved around him, his long legs curled gently and pressing against John's thighs. Sherlock's arm is wrapped tightly across the doctor's back, the long fingers flat against John's ribs.

John slowly wakes up to flashes of color streaking across his mind which is rather surprising. On one hand, John didn't even think that Sherlock would be here in the morning let alone be asleep enough to have dreams.

He keeps his eyes closed and basks in the warm, comforting thoughts of the detective next to him.

For awhile, John tries to focus on the images and at first, they seem to have no purpose, bright flashes of purple and blues, with streaks of gray, white, and silver.

The doctor's never witnessed this type of dreaming before, sure he has probed minds that were asleep when he was in residency, but those dreams were nothing like this. Dreams that he's witnessed have kind of been like watching a movie, a very strange and fuzzy movie.

The detective's dreams hold images sure, but they are overshadowed by the hues. John tries to focus and dig out a memory. He zeroes in on the images around the colors. The doctor remains as relaxed as possible under the arm of Sherlock as he explores the younger man's mind.

Underneath the purple, John sees a shirt and he would recognise that shirt anywhere. It's tight fitting and makes him drool.

Underneath the blue is a faint memory of John, in his favorite blue jumper, laughing while lounging on the couch as blood trickles from his nose. John remembers that night fondly, they had just finished chasing a criminal around London. The suspect knocked John down and then pulled a gun on him. (First bloody nose in a while that had nothing to do with his Gift)

Out of nowhere, Sherlock had arrived and took the guy out. Not just a punch and handcuffs either, no Sherlock tackled the man to the ground and then with one fist, knocked the man unconscious. John remembers watching in amazement. It wasn't until they got back to the flat that John commented on how awesome Sherlock had been, causing them both to laugh.

John smiles to himself at the memory and proceeds to find the image beneath the gray, white and silver. The colors seem to be linked together but John can't quite get underneath the radiating shades. The colors start to fade and for a second John freaks out, tensing against the change. He doesn't relax until he realizes that Sherlock is just slowly waking up.

As Sherlock comes back from the world of sleep, the images fall silent and now John has nothing to distract so he lets his mind wander.

* * *

A million questions float through his mind all at once but he sticks to the most familiar one.

Why is Sherlock so different?

John is always asking himself this question, even last night, when Sherlock had touched him. His connection would spark and tingle with the man's touches but no memories came. His mind had been completely silent. Why? Is Sherlock really different? Or is John weaker? Is being weaker a good or bad thing? Is this him turning normal?

John mentally shakes his head. He had been able to read that man with the child, he could read the man's thoughts easily and it hadn't been any different than usual.

Sherlock is just special? Why? How?

Why is he so accepting? John becomes slightly suspicious suddenly. He adapted to John's gift quickly without so much as a blink of hesitation. Does he know more information about this then John does?

John shakes his head, mentally of course, again. He trusts the younger man, well of course he does based on last night.

 _"Sherlock has nothing to do with this."_ He reassures himself and John thinks back to when he was telling the genius about his Gift. Sherlock had been so curious and absorbing, and John knows he wouldn't act like that if he isn't truly interested.

But mostly, in spite of all of that, the fact that John can read his mind and has yet to find anything but true curiosity and wonderment in the detective, is reassuring enough.

John dismisses the thought that Sherlock is a spy, thinking himself very silly.

 _"John."_ Sherlock calls out mentally, his tone sleepy. John opens his eyes slowly and sees the genius's eyes still closed and his breathing deep.

John heart can't help but swell in adoration and his cheeks blush a little bit. He never once thought the fact that the reason Sherlock calls him mentally had been because he was always thinking about him, because he's attracted....interested....loves him?

No, not love. Sherlock's a sociopath, first and foremost, he doesn't love.

But, there's something there, there's evidence due to the sheer amount of time Sherlock spends mentally (and obliviously) calling for the doctor.

John stares at the pale white and beautiful skin of the man next to him. What does he feel? Attraction?

 _"Come on, Watson. You know."_ He screams at himself, and yes, yes he does. He can't deny how madly in love he is with his flatmate, boyfriend, lover?

John lets himself take a minute for the confusion and uncertainty to surround him.

He sighs, this time out loud before he thinks about it. He shifts from underneath the detective, making a move to leave the room.

"Shh. I'm sleeping, stop thinking." Sherlock mutters, griping John closer which prevents him from leaving.

"Sorry." John says sadly.

The detective's eyes snap open and study the doctor's face. He glances over the older man's face for a few seconds.

_"What's wrong?"_

John doesn't answer. He just holds onto the gray eyes, anticipating the inevitable fight that is about to happen.

"I care about you John, stop with the angst." Sherlock states abruptly, his lips curling slightly into the begining of a snarl.

"I don't know how this happen or what does it mean?" John says softly as emotions have free reign.

 _"Great, good job Watson."_ John thinks.

"I'm sorry, that was unfair." John says looking at the pensive look the detective is carrying.

"You didn't like it?" Sherlock questions, looking away from John.

"No, that's not what I meant, that was...bloody great." John says shifting himself, so he's on his side. Sherlock's arm doesn't move and once John gets situated, he pulls the doctor closer to him. Who would have figured the detective to be a closet cuddler?

"I ask again, what's wrong?" Sherlock says, his face completely serious.

"I just, what now? I care about you a lot, Sherlock. I don't know if I can go back to being just friends after this." John confesses in despair, thinking how long it will take for Sherlock to get him out of the flat.

Sherlock doesn't even bother that with an answer. He sends his patented 'Idiot' glare at the doctor.

John's eyes look away sheepishly causing Sherlock to heave a big sigh before speaking, "John, I'm not good at these emotions, but I, last night..I...I've never felt affection for someone like I do for you..." he states, ducking his head down to try and make eye contact with John.

"I'm too pedestrian for you." John states calmly, but truthfully keeping his eyes downcast.

Sherlock snorts angrily, like the sheer fact that John thinks that is infuriating. "John you are far from pedestrian levels and I'm not even talking about the fact that you can read minds." He says in that pompous ways of his. The way that makes you think he's always right.

"I just don't understand." John exasperates lifting his eyes to look at him, and he realizes he's being a bit whiny but he's just so confused. Here he is, an average grown man and now he's attracted and attractive to Sherlock Holmes?

Before he can think any further on that, images burst through the connection. Memories of the two of them together, laughing and being near each other, standing next to each other, images of them gravitating towards each other, getting into fisticuffs with assailants, reading the newspaper and typing their blogs.

"I show you what I see in you all the time." Sherlock sends warmth and adoration, no, the feeling isn't adoration fully, it's more deep, it feels like...love.

"You love me?" John asks, incredulous, without thinking. Sherlock tenses underneath him.

"I don't know feelings," Sherlock starts, "But then you came into my life and all of a sudden I hurt, I was emotional and I felt things that I didn't know existed." Sherlock adds rationally.

 _"I show the symptoms of love."  
_ The thoughts have a put upon feeling, like Sherlock is long suffering about it.

"You googled it, didn't you?" John snickers once he figures it out.

 _"They were very resourceful."_ Sherlock gives glowering snort.

John chuckles and gripes the detective closer.

"So where does that leave us?" John asks.

"Boyfriends, lovers." Sherlock suggests.

"Partners." John states, his mind immediately relaxing.

"I love you too." John remarks, letting the detective nuzzle into his neck, and he sighs in happiness.

* * *

Life doesn't really change. They are just together and it seems like everyone has a say in it. Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, and even the 'married ones' next door (how they found out is anyone's guess).

Lestrade, particularly seems to be relieved about the situation, even admitting albeit rather shyly, that he's glad the sexual tension is finally taken care of.

It had been apparently "terribly suffocating."

 _"So everyone knew about this before me."_ John had thought while they were on their way home from a crime scene the other night.

It's times like these that John rethinks reading people's minds for personal gain.

Today, John sits in a cafe just down the road of the surgery before he heads home and he's mulling over his new relationship with Sherlock.

He's genuinely happy, a happy that he hasn't been in a while.

Now that he thinks about it, there is something that's changed since being together. Sherlock has taken this new level of intimacy and decied to become diligent in his new experiments.

For the most part, Sherlock has been working tirelessly at breaking John's mental barriers. Each day, he's able to push more and more thoughts into the doctor's head without preamble.

Moreover, and to John's surprise, the detective is also able to control his thoughts when they touch. He honestly doesn't know what to think and in fact, several times he wanders if Sherlock has some sort of ability himself. The detective denies this of course, and why wouldn't he, John doesn't have any experience, maybe people could control what John sees if they know. However, Sherlock is very adamant about not involving others, which John is secret relieved about (and its a little possessive of the younger man, but thankfully, John just finds his possession adorable and tolerable).

_"John!"_

_"John!"_

_"John!"_ John stumbles at the rapid chanting thoughts echoing in his head. He whips out his phone.

_Oh my god, what? How are you doing that? How can I hear you this far away? - JW_

The doctor is surprised and slightly stunned. He is more than a twenty minute tube ride from the flat and he hasn't even reached the station yet.

 _"You can hear me. Excellent."_ Pure happiness radiates from the thought causing John to smile. _  
_

John opens up and breaks into Sherlock's link so they can communicate easier. He sees Sherlock staring at his chair in the flat. He senses the boredom and excitement. John shakes his head in adoration as he latches more firmly onto the bond.

The doctor has become very comfortable with Sherlock's link and can even pick it out in a crowd thanks to a new development.

Due to one of the detective's experiment, which Sherlock is very insistent and determined when it comes to them and for the most part, the doctor isn't annoyed by them. When Sherlock experiments John gets to test his own theories as well. It's a whole new door in learning and John finds himself with new experiences and furthering his limitations. John is exploring his Gift in ways he never thought possible.

This new occurrence had happened by accident.

Sherlock encourages John to probe his mind whenever he wants so the detective can get better at detecting when John opens the mental connection. (John nods but doesn't abide, his rules are firm. He only obeys when Sherlock pleads incessantly or when the genius deduces) However, the link has become familiar and proficient.

It turns out, the more familiar and comfortable John is with a link, the bond takes on a tangible capability. John hadn't noticed before and, until the recent development, he probably would have never known that his mental links emits a scent, and the more he attaches with a person the more concrete and recognisable the link becomes.

With the accustomed bond, comes the scent, a taste or smell. At first, John couldn't fathom a reason for the scents but eventually he had realized that it made picking up the link easier, especially in a crowd or over longer distances. Sherlock's mental scents are (unsurprisingly) John's favorite. It's a pleasant mix of lilac and honey that warms John.

Of course with this new developments comes new experiment.

John has dubbed, rather fondly, the ongoing experiment of this month 'If I Eat Different Things Will John's Mental Scents Be Different?' 

So far on the list of things Sherlock's eaten for science; _  
_

_Strawberries (Still lilac and honey)_

_Carrots (Same, although, Sherlock turned a bit orange that day, he was really invested in the experiment)_

_Spaghetti (Lilac and honey)_

_Any takeaway in the area (Same)_

It's a work in progress and, if anything, John admires the detective for his perseverance and diligence. John doesn't have the heart to complain, he just revels in the fact the Sherlock is eating something and on his own accord.

 _"John."_ Sherlocks thoughts echo in his head just as John reaches the tube station.

_Is this another one of your experiments? - JW_

_"Yes. I've been calling your name for the past four hours."_ The familiar scences of lilac and honey invade John's mind. He smiles to himself as he walks towards the tube station.

_I've been at work. How is calling me for the past four hours not considered boring? - JW_

_How are you doing this? Does it hurt? - JW  
_

_"You aren't boring. I don't know how, I have just been repeating your name in my mind. And no it doesn't hurt."_ He can sense Sherlock thinking pensively over the link. _  
_

_For the past four hours? - JW_

_"Yes."_

_You are crazy.- JW  
_

_"How far away are you?"_

_I'm headed towards the entrance of the tube stop down from work.- JW_

_"Excellent. We should see if we can make the distance farther."_

_No. I don't need you in my head when I'm across London - JW_

_"We need milk."_

_My point exactly - JW  
_

_"I'm eating cake?"_ _  
_

_Is that supposed to distract me...Wait, you made a cake? o_0 - JW_.

John panics before typing a rapid response.

IS THE FLAT OKAY? - JW

The doctor sputters at the thought. He scans the flat through Sherlock's eyes, but all he sees is the plate of white cake.

John can see the mess of flour and icing he would have to clean when he got home. The doctor sighs.

_"Yes, yes, calm down. Of course not, Mrs. Hudson made it. And don't use smilies they lower my IQ."_

_Naturally - JW_

John laughs and pockets his phone. _  
_

 _"DO I TASTE LIKE CAKE!?"_   Sherlock's thoughts scream into John's mind after a minute, he resists the urge to grunt in the sudden booming in his head.

_Calm down, that hurts. no, nothing. - JW_

_Wait, what type of cake? - JW_

_"You can taste something different?"_ John can sense the excitement. _"Its lemon cake with vanilla frosting."_

_Oh that sounds good. - JW_

_"John!"_ Sherlock is whining. _"Do I taste like cake?"_

_Still lilacs and honey, love. ;) - JW_

_I hate you - SH_

John smiles putting his phone away again, entering the tube station and enjoying the quiet ride home.


	8. Masterminds & Assassination Attempts

**About six months later in the beginning of November......**

* * *

"Sherlock, you're being overly dramatic, more so than normal." John states with exasperation.

"I am not." John hears the muffled voice of the detective through the bathroom door and he sighs. _"Idiot."_

"Hey!" John pounds on the door. "We're going to be late." He tries glaring at the door acting as if it will open by sheer will alone.

Sherlock doesn't answer and John's growing impatient. This is ridiculous, there's no reason for the genius to be holed up like this. Without trepidation, he stealthily opens the link between them. A waff of lilac and honey greets him pleasantly and John closes his eyes briefly. He sees the insides of the bathroom through Sherlock's eyes and tries to catch a glimpse of the mirror.  

"Stop that! It's cheating." Sherlock yells and then all John sees is darkness as the detective blocks him out.

"Well, excuse me." John huffs and backs out of the connection. He crosses his arm and turns around to lean his full weight on the door separating them.

"I don't see why we have to go Mycroft's party away." Sherlock muffled voice whines. _"Dull, idiots."_

"We've had this conversation four times in the last forty eight hours. I'm not going to have it a fifth time." John says impatiently and brushes a piece of lint off his suit.

"Yes. Yes. Fine." The younger man huffs, "But you said we could experiment."

"I said I _might_ let you experiment.  _If_ you were good." John clarifies growing bored. "Besides-" John starts but then he's suddenly falling, his arms flailing. Before he can hit the ground there are warm arms wrapping tightly around him. He relaxes instantly in the detective's embrace. The connection buzzes instantaneous as Sherlock hands happen rest over his exposed wrists. John twists his head and beams up into the gray eyes, letting the silence of the link warm him.

"Hi." John exhales lazily, getting lost in the genius's gorgeous eyes and even more beautiful brain.

 _"Hi yourself."_ Sherlock stands like that for a few minutes, with John leans heavily into his chest, holding tightly while he draws lazy circles absentmindedly across the the back of John's exposed hand.

"A little warning next time?" John says eventually and stands himself upright.

 _"I'm not the idiot who was leaning against the door."_ Sherlock thinks and steps fully out of the bathroom.

This is the first time John's got a good lock at the genius and he's pretty sure his mouth is on the floor. Seriously, there could be drool. Sherlock strolls across the room to pick up his phone and watch. The suit stretches and relaxes like an extension of skin and it's tailored perfectly, especially in the ass parts of the trousers. Its light gray shade complements Sherlock's skin tones and eyes and John's never seen someone look so good (and delectable) in a suit before. 

He continues to leer at the detective as he walks around the room getting ready, picking up this and that.

_"You are going to catch flies, John."_

John startles out a laugh and moves over to Sherlock, who's putting the finishing touches on his tie. John brushes his hands against Sherlock's chest, smoothing down the slick fabric. He gazes up into Sherlock's eyes and is met with a twinge of lust. The doctor doesn't waste any time. He grabs Sherlock's suit carefully, trying not to wrinkle the perfect clothing and mashes their lips together. The kiss is sweet and clean and the connection is silent, but John can feel the spark of the bond intensifying the kiss. He moves his tongue slowly across Sherlock's lower lip and there are groana of pleasure. Sherlock pushes him against the wall and pins John with his body. With their lips still attached, the genius cups John's face and then there's a bombardment of images pushing through the link.

A laughing Sherlock insulting Anderson, a grinning detective poking at something in a petri dish. John welcomes the pictures as always but he tries to put more focus on the kiss.

Finally, the lack of breathing forces them to break apart and pant heavily.

"That was really not fair." John states, gasping for breath.

"I have no idea what you are talking about." The younger man states calmly and brings their lips together again for another quick kiss.

John huffs into the kiss and mumbles against Sherlock's lips with a smile. "Of course you don't."

"If you'd only let me test some of my theories I could probably distract you less." Sherlock says out loud and moves to trail kisses along John's jawline.

"You already know how to control it," John gasp out but Sherlock backs away and moves to leave the bedroom. John, horrified, grabs his clothed elbow and pulls him back. "You are so not fair." He plants a kiss on Sherlock before saying, "Fine. Fine. But if I'm uncomfortable at all you have to let me stop okay." The detective nods enthusiastically and smiles against his lips.

 _"The car is here."_ Sherlock thinks at John and moves back a little and the doctor whines.

"Who cares if we are late?" John mumbles back and tries to find Sherlock's lips again.

The detective laughs and grabs John's hand and pulls him out of the bedroom. _"Come along, you silly doctor. There's a party to be completely bored at."_

* * *

 _"God, Sherlock was right."_ John thinks to himself as he stands in a corner observing the party. _"All these people are so dull."_

Nothing interesting about them, besides their fancy clothing and obvious affairs. At least the food is good and the champagne is free. _"Liquor, a way to every Watson's heart."_ The sarcastic thought comes out of nowhere, John doesn't normally think about his family and John scolds himself bitterly. _"Watson, don't ruin this party with your own bitter family affairs."_

_"Dull. Adulterer."_

_"Dull. Launderer."_

_"Dull. Nothing of remote interest."_

The repeat phrases come from Sherlock as he circles the room and they're strangely comforting. Just eight months earlier, being in a room this full of people would have seriously overwhelmed him. The white noise would have consumed John. But not now, now he's got his own silencer.

Small mercies.

Honestly he lost track of Sherlock about five minutes ago but through their mental connection he can hear the detective's thoughts as he twirls around the room observing.

 _"John. I'm bored."_ He looks around for Sherlock but still can't see him anywhere. He whips out his phone and sends out a text with a huff.

_You better not be hiding. If you ditched me...... - JW_

_"Honestly John."_ And John can  _feel_ the eye roll through the connection. " _Can we experiment now, I'm bored and there's not even a murderer here."_ _  
_

_I wouldn't say that - JW_

_"What? Who? No! Let me guess."_ John spots a flash of Sherlock's gray suit as the detective slinks on the outskirts of the tiled dance floor. His expression is manic and gleeful. 

 _"That should keep him busy for awhile."_ John thinks and apparently champagne makes him manipulative and mean. He muses over that thought while he grabs another glass of the bubbly drink.

Eventually though, John stops drinking the champagne when he gets pleasantly tipsy, just a couple minutes shy of drunk.

He's lost sight of Sherlock over an hour go but he's not too worried. The man's probably hunting the murderer that John made up.

 _"John. You lied to me."_ The sudden intrusion pounds against John's head and he winces.

 _"Ah. this is why we don't drink, Watson. Everything hurts more."_ John really hates his smarmy conscience sometimes.

That doesn't stop it from being true. There has been times in the past where John's consumbed alcohol and he's ability had been none to pleased. The liquor, like it's wont to do, dulls his boundaries and he becomes more susceptible to pain. Most of the time he can manage well enought but there have been times when the pain is intolerable.

This seems to be one of those times. The pounding in his head makes John wince and he's trying to hold in a whimper.

 _"Man up, soldier."_ John scolds himself and stands up straight like the military had taught him to do.

 _"That wasn't fair."_ John just barely resists the urge to grab his head in pain.

Screw the military.

He makes a hasty retreat, clutching the wall with an overwhelming dependency. All the while, Sherlock keeps projecting unimportant and meaningless thoughts into the link. 

John is thankfully far enough away from people that no one notices the bizarre man clutching his head. He silently prays that nobody touches him, he doesn't think he can handle that right now.

 _"John."_ He grunts and turns a corner, hoping to get away from the party and the pain.

 _"Yep, keep the thoughts coming Sherlock."_ John thinks with sarcastic bitterness and his hands scramble on a nearby doorknob. He opens it without thinking and stumbles drunkenly into the room. God he needs to sit down. 

 _"I'm drunker than I thought."_ John thinks (even thought his brain seems to be slow and hazy), as he staggers into a chair.  He wonders where he's ended up and scans the room briefly. The doctor's observation gets as far as the wall-to-ceiling windows that frame the fireplace before he gives up.

His brain is pulsating and the liquor is making everything blurry and he decides that he doesn't care about Mycroft's stupid, rich room. Instead, he closes his eyes to block out the moonlight's illumination while the silence comforts him.

After a few minutes of silence the headache is still present and John's phone rings. He digs it out of his jacket pocket and winces when the movment jostles his head. Glancing at the screen reveals that it's a blocked number.

_Blocked number._

Normally, John doesn't answer blocked numbers. However, there are a few factors in this situation. Namely, the part is boring, Sherlock isn't around, and John's fairly sure he's drunk. 

It barely gets to the third ring before John is answering the call.

"Hello." John slurs and there's a slight twinge in his head.

"Hello, Johnny." A strange voice answers and John's headache seems to fade to the background in shock.

"Who is this? How do you know my name?" John spits unoriginally at the stranger on the phone and slouches into the chair impatiently.

"Now now, Johnny no need to be so touchy. Pets aren't supposed to bark at strangers." The accented voice says and there's a surge of pain in John's head before it disappears again. He sits there confused.

Who is this guy?

He tries to latch onto the stranger's mind over the phone. It's something Sherlock and him have been practicing with little success. 

John gives up after a minute of trying. It wouldn't take and he doesn't know if he should blame it on the liquor, the pain in his head or the fact that it just hadn't worked.

"I'm drunk and I really don't have time for this." John states on an exhale and his limbs tingle with sensation and grow heavy.

He idly wonders wehre Sherlock is and how come he's not projecting into his mind.

"Drunk?" The sing-song voice giggles over the phone drawing John back into the conversation. "No, not drunk Johnny-Boy. Drugged? Maybe."

"Drugged?" John whispers in confusion. "Why? How?" There are warning bells going off in the doctor's brain and he tries to straighten himself. He's limbs don't seem to want to cooperate so it takes a couple of seconds for him to sit up and scane the room for danger. His eyes, however, are particularly slow to respond.

That could be a dangerous sign.

"Oh don't worry," The voice says shrilly and John cringes while he pulls the phone away from his ear slightly. "Nobody will get hurt. Their stupidity with continue to exist and have the same after effects that of a bad hangover. This was just my little welcome gift to Sherlock Holmes."

Irish. THe man is definitely Irish and John smiles (distractedly) triumpantly over his stupid and misplaced victory.

Because John had been stupidly distracted by figuring out the man's accent it takes him a minute to process what the Irish man had said.

"Why are you talking to me then?" John ask and his face twists in confusion and there is a sudden throb of pain that passes as quickly as it comes. The doctor gives a bone deep sigh and slouches in the chair exhaustedly.

"Why not? You're his pet aren't you? Who better to get information out of?" The voice sings and John wants to huff.

If John had been paying attention he would have heard the creaking of the door opening. Instead, his eyes blur a bit and he lazily looks around the room before his gaze lands on the ugly fabric of the chair. He runs a hand idly over it will his head pounds again.

Seriously, what is with that?

"What makes you think I'll say anything?" John scoffs. Who is this guy?

"Benefits of the drug, Johnny." The stranger teases.

The doctor gapes and puts it together slowly. "A truth drug. Seriously?" John snorts and then laughs hysterically.

There are little noises of frustration on the other end of the phone but John ignores them. He wonders if he should get up and find Sherlock. He's been drugged after all and this seems like a mystery Sherlock would like.

Before he can stand up he hears footsteps echoing in the room and John whips his head around quickly. Or he at least tries to be quick. His movements are still hazy and slow due to the drug so it takes two extra seconds than it normally would have for his gaze to land on Sherlock.

The lean figure of Sherlock Holmes is approaching him quizzically to which John just stares back at him. The drug must be interferring with his sense of time because suddenly Sherlock's kneeling in front of him and John doesn't even remember seeing him move.  He looks at the detective who stares back, his face full of worry and concern and that puzzles John.

"John." Sherlock asks out loud and stares up at the doctor.

"Hang on, stranger." John giggles into the phone and he can hear the Irish man talking but John pulls it away from his ear and rests the phone on his shoulder. He decides he'd rather give Sherlock his full attention at the moment. There's a twist of pain that pulses through his brain again but John ignores it.

"What's going on, John?" Sherlock asks and places a hand on the older man's knee. John stares at him glancing between the hand on his knee and Sherlock's face.

"Is that Sherlock, Johnny Boy?" John can barely hear the tinny noise coming from his shoulder and for a split second instinct tells him to just hang up. However, his limbs are heavy and his head is buzzing and his mind can't really process logic right now so John just nods stupidly.

"Well, put him on." Red flags go off in John's brain but he holds the phone out to Sherlock wordlessly. The detective stares at the phone and looks to him worriedly. Eventually, Sherlock takes the phone gently from John and he smiles reassuringly. It just comes off as sloppy and lopsided.

If Sherlock hadn't been so confused and worried by the situation he would have laughed at his lover's expression.

"Who is this?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh. Here is the Great Sherlock Holmes." John can barely hear the man's voice say. Then a throb blitzes painfully through his mind and he's forced to bring hands up to grasp his head.

"What do you want?" Sherlock sayins, eying John silently before standing up to move a little ways away.

In a feat of great coordination, John slides forward in his chair and puts his elbows on his knees. He lets his head fall into his hands. He tries to will the fuzziness and now constant throbbing in his head. As he takes deep breaths he tries to assess the situation.

Who is the man on the phone? What does he want? Why attack at Mycroft's place?

John's face scrunches up with his discombobulated thoughts and tries to think around the pain. This man, this Irish man has drugged an entire party just to talk to John, or well through John to Sherlock.

"Why?" John mumbles to himself and looks up to see Sherlock standing by the window, absentmindedly staring out at the never-ending grounds of Mycroft's mansion. Barely a minute has passed since John's surrendered the phone and there's a contorted frown on the genius's face.

John's mind is insistenly poking at him. His subconscious is telling him that something is wrong.

How did he get John's number? Better yet, how did the Irish man know to call John at this moment, when he had been by himself?

"He's watching." John says suddenly, and his eyes widen with surprise.

John had _nodded_ , he had nodded. When the man had asked if Sherlock had been present, John had _nodded_. 

The last thought sobers John up a bit more and his gaze snaps up to see Sherlock's lithe frame silhouetted by the window.

There's an unmistakable adrenaline surge that powers John and without thinking he's running across the room. With a calculated swipe of his hand, the army doctor knocks the phone out of Sherlock's grip and it goes flying through the air. He doesn't waste time watching the phone, and instead, grabs Sherlock by his collar and tie and pull him to the ground.

Milliseconds later, the window explodes in a shattering of glass and John can hear the tell tale sound of a sniper rifle.

All of this happens within the span of six seconds.

As the shards of glass fall to the ground so do the duo. John crashes onto the hearth first, his bad shoulder making a hard impact on the stone in front of the fireplace. Sherlock lands on top of him ungracefully and the doctor grunts from the unexpected weight. John only catches his breath for a second before he's scrambling and pulling the detective so that their backs are resting against the safety doors of the fireplace.

"What the hell?" Sherlock gasps trying to get his breathing back to normal.

"Sorry. He can see us." John says panting and the detective opens his mouth to ask more but John sags noticeably. The adrenaline leaves him just as quickly as it came and his head continues to pulsate something fierce.

This time, unlike what he's been experiencing all night, doesn't immediately recede. He brings his knees to his chest and rests his head on his knees as he wills the pain away.

Sherlock notices the change in demeanor and the painful twitches that are jerking the doctor's body and he scoots closer to the older man. "John, what's wrong?" He says with worry in his voice.

John shakes his head and extends his sore legs with a shaky sigh. "You should text your brother. Ask him to rescue us from the room. The shooter could still be out there." John says softly, and he's sobering up by the minute, with the sudden change of events and the constant pain in his head.

The genius nods hesistantly but pulls his phone out regardless and sends the text.

"John? What's wrong?" Sherlock asks again after a few seconds of silence and John starts to answer but his brain is starting to go a bit hazy with pain. If this persists, John's going to throw up and the pains going to kill him.

There's movement to his left and suddenly Sherlock's straddling him.

John looks up and grimaces. He's not really up for life affirming sex right now and he's just about to tell Sherlock this when the genius puts his bare hands on John's cheeks. The throbbing suddenly feels like needles in his brain and its forcing John to close.

"John can you hear me?" Sherlock asks with concern and takes his hands off the doctor's face and just like that the pain starts to receede.

In John's drugged and hurting state these events pass over him completely. Instead, he answers, "Yes? Of course I can hear you." He's face is full of confusion and he's wondering what Sherlock's getting at.

"No, John." The younger man says impatiently, "Can you hear my thoughts?" And Sherlock is looking so intently into John's eyes, one would think there's treasure hidden in there.

"You won't find any treasure there." John blurts without thinking and then shakes his head. He's not making sense, his minds is fuzzy and his thinking is all over the place.

"John. Listen to me." Sherlock pleads and puts his warm hands on John's cheeks again. "Can you hear my thoughts?" The doctor focuses and the mystery to this puzzle is just on the tip of his tongue.

When it finally hits him, its with the subtly of a freight train.

The only thing to do at the moment is panic.

"You're touching me. You're hands are on my cheeks." John whispers frantically and he feels the heat radiating from Sherlock's palms as proof.  
I can't hear you. I  _can't_ smell you." He tries to take a deep breath but it comes out a shallow sob. "I can't hear you. I can't hear anything!" He focuses and tries to push himself into the genius's mind. There's nothing. No thoughts, no deductions. John tries to go deeper into Sherlock minds but he's me with coldness and pain.

"What's going on?" John says worriedly and looks into Sherlock's eyes hoping that its all some sort of trick.

"John. John." Sherlock says and ducks his head to gaze into the doctor's wild eyes. "Calm Down." He commands and lets go of his face. He shuffles a bit and dismounts John to sit by his side. Then Sherlock grabs John's shoulders and manhandles him so they are snuggled close to each other. 

Some of the anxiety leaves John once his feels the safety of Sherlock's arms enclosing him and his takes a moment to even out his breathing.

"I've been screaming my thoughts at you ever since I got into the room." Sherlock states softly and John's eyes widen in shock.

"That's why it hurt." John says putting the pieces together. "That's what the throbbing had been."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was hurting you." Sherlock admits, a guilty look on his face and John waves a hand dismissively before going quiet.

They spend a few minutes in silence before Sherlock's curiosity gets the better of him.

"What was all this?" Sherlock whsipers and John is pulled from his thinking and recalls the nights events. .

"The Champagne was drugged." John spits out before sitting up to look Sherlock over. "You didn't have any did you?" He looks into the younger man's face to see if there are any signs of dilated pupils and whatnot.

"No. I didn't have any." Sherlock states calmly and pulls him down to is former position at his side.

"Sherlock what's happening?" John sighs and asks timidly.

"I don't know." Sherlock replies honestly but with a hint of frustration in his tone.

"Why can't I hear anybody?" John asks, his voice close to devastation. "What if I can never do it again?" He instantly feels vulnerable. He's had this ability for most of his adult life and it could suddenly be all gone.

"Shh. John. We don't know anything yet." Sherlock attempts to soothe and its miraculously working. "Even if it's gone," At that John makes a small whimpering noise, "You'll still be the same John Watson that I fell in love with."

"Really?" John asks, his voice small and he can feel Sherlock stroking his hand through his short blonde hair.

"Of course. I love you John Watson." Sherlock says confidently but there's a hint of wonder in his tone that has John tensing.

"What are you thinking?" He asks finally after some silence.

"The man on the phone?" Sherlock answers back stiffly.

"Who was he?" The doctor asks and turns his head to see the detective's eyes narrowing as he thinks.

"Moriarty." Sherlock snarls out and it startles John a bit at the sheer aggressiveness of his voice.

That name rings absolutely no bell with John so he forces himself to ask, "Who's that?"

Sherlock sneers and his eyes are rapidly moving about before he says, "A fan."

"A fan? HE TRIED TO KILL YOU!" He yells and suddenly remembers why they are still on the floor hiding. He looks over to the mess of shattered glass that once use to be the pristine windows and worries.

"Are you okay? You aren't hit, are you?" John demands and runs his hand over the detective's body looking or wounds.

"John. I'm fine. Thanks to you, we were already half way to the ground by the time the window shattered." Sherlock says and grabs the older man's roaming hand, pulls it up to his mouth and plants a kiss on his palm.

John nods and quiets down. There's a sudden exhaustion in his limbs and while the pain has receeded its leaving his tiring effects behind. Through this all, John manages to whisper, "What now?"

"We wait for Mycroft and then get you to a hospital." Sherlock says and intertwines their hands together. "We have to figure out how and why the drug affected you like it did."

"How many hypothesis do you have?" John asks with a yawn.

The detective just smirks and says, "Take a rest John. I'll wake you in a bit."

John normally wouldn't let it go but he is tired. With a nod he closes his eyes for a nap.

But there are two questions that float worriedly around in his slumbering mind.

John nods and tries not to panic.

1\. What happens if his gift is permanently gone?

2\. Could he really go back to being normal?


	9. MRIs

_I've had the luxury of being shot at in YOUR home. Your assistence would be reluctantly appreciated. - SH_

Mycroft enters the library in a controlled panic. But once he sees his brother and Dr. Watson seemingly unharmed he pushes his emotions aside and asseses the situation.

To be honest, he had expected blood, maybe even a certain doctor frantically fussing over Sherlock. However, the scene he finds surprises him. Or it would surprise him if he wasn't Mycroft Holmes.

With a quick gaze around the room he takes in the events of the evening. Once he's down looking about the room he settles his eyes on the two other people in the room. Sherlock's cradling an unconscious John Watson in his arms just in front of the fireplace. Shatttered glass is strewn about the room and there's a faint but cold November breeze coming in through the open window that sends an unvoluntary shiver through the elder Holmes.  

"Someone tried to kill me." Sherlock states calmly and doesn't look up from Watson's face nor does he stop stroking the doctor's hair.

Mycroft sends out a text wishing for an update of the sweep of the estate's grounds.

"Enemies? You?" Mycroft drawls when he finishes the text but still remains hovering in the doorway.

"He called himself Moriarty." Sherlock says and the elder Holmes tries not to tense and give it away.

If Sherlock had been looking at his brother he might have noticed the change in demeanor, he might have deduced that Mycroft knew of the name Moriarty.

As it stands, Sherlock only has eyes for the doctor laying in his lap.

His phone beeps and it echos in the eerily quiet room.

_The ground is clear and the shooter has retreated. -A_

Sidestepping the haphazardly placed glass he walks into the room with a sigh and sit down in a chair facing Sherlock.

"Who is that, baby brother?" Mycroft asks nonchalantly, trying to keep his face placid. He crosses his legs and settles back. 

"A fan." Sherlock snarls and the politician raises his eyebrows.

"Some fan." He  muses and his eyes dance towards John with curiosity.

"I would like to take John to a hospital." Sherlock commands and finally lifts his head to look Mycroft in the face.

There's a scary determination (familiar) and even a bit of concern (definitely not familiar) floating around in Sherlock's eyes and Mycroft chooses not to say anything, except, "What's wrong with him?"

"The same thing that's wrong with all of your guests who drank the champagne. It's been drugged, Mycroft." Sherlock says nastily and the older brother can hear the blame coming lacing the detective's voice. He thinks that someone drugging the champagne is a failure on Mycroft's part and in a way it is. He has his own security detail and someone drugging the drink at his _own_ party should have been easily avoided.

All Mycroft can do is sigh. It explains the rowdiness of the crowd and the shiftness of a certain member of his staff.

"I'm assuming there will be no lasting side effects?" He asks but he's already mentally preparing the paperwork and meetings he'll have to attend for damage control.

"Nothing worse than a hangover." Sherlock says (and Mycroft sags in relief) and looks down at John. "He hit his head when he pulled me away from the window." The younger Holmes says softly and runs a hand over the doctor's face.

He tries to send warm and comforting thoughts into the link but he has no idea if its working. Sherlock does not like not knowing things.

None of this gets past Mycroft who narrows his eyes at the scene in front of him. Years of instinct and even more years of being a big brother are telling him that Sherlock's lying.

He takes in the evidence. Head wounds bleed, its what they are known for. Yet, there doesn't seem to be a drop of blood anywhere. Not on the hearth nor on Sherlock's clothes and considering that Dr. Watson is in the detective's lap there should be some prescence. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock avoids the A&E religiously. He would never going willlingly into a hospital...unless John is really that bad off. But with no obvious (bleeding) wound how would the detective know? The explanation is obvious.

Sherlock is lying.

But the real question is, why?

When Sherlock lifts his gaze up to seek out Mycroft's, the elder man raises a very skeptical eyebrow.

"Now." The detective scowls but says nothing more. Mycroft sighs and lets it go for now, its not like Sherlock would tell him the truth anyway. He takes out his phone and sends a text off.

"I trust you'll run tests on the drug." He states and stands up. He brushes lint of his dinner jacket disinterestedly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes but nods nevertheless. Mycroft watches as his younger brother shuts him out completely and begins tracing random patterns on the back of John's hand.

The politician is taken aback, he can't remember seeing Sherlock this tactile since they had been children. It seems the doctor has done a lot more for Sherlock than Mycroft had orginally realized. 

He makes a mental note to remind Anthea to schedule a kidnapping for a certain doctor. 

Once he's well of course.

* * *

The trip to the hospital is mostly uneventful. John remains unconscious for the  ride in Mycroft's ridiculously expensive sedan and is still out of it when they wheel him in for an MRI (at Sherlock's insistance).  

John's doctors don't make a fuss and get straight to work. 

Sherlock sits in one the uncomfortable hospital chairs and watches them drive his doctor away, not sure what's going to happen next.

* * *

John slowly works his way into consciousness and opens his eyes to stare at the bland ceiling that seems to accompany most hospitals. He swings his eyes about the empty room as his brain tries to catch up with his wakefulness. His thoughts, are jumbled together and hazy. It takes him a while but finally he gets around to wondering (a bit incoherently) if he still posseses his Gift. 

After moving around his stiff limbs and doing a couple of mental excersises that Sherlock had taught him a couple of weeks ago, he eventually decides that he doesn't feel any different. 

For a second, John thinks about making a random connection with somone nearby but exhaustion and fear make him hesitate. His ability might not be there anymore, the mystery drug could have accidentally wiped it out. He might have lost his gift and John doesn't know if he's ready to deal with that reality yet. 

_"I like the silence but who would I be without my ability?"_ John thinks to himself sleepily and works himself into a worried state.

After a while, during which his thoughts have been buzzing about the unknowns, he shifts his body again but groans at the stiffness. The drugs from Sherlock's crazed fan could still be in his system, making him sorer than usual. Or it could be something the doctors gave him. He doesn't let the tenseness of his muscles bug him too much, he's okay with just laying there and resting. Someone will be in any moment to check his vitals. 

With a great effort, he decides to push aside his worries and just let his body and mind heal. So he just lays there, drifting between wakefulness and sleep and basks in the silence and hoping that maybe he could go back to sleep.

Of course, this is when Sherlock resolves to turn his little reality upside down. 

_"John."_

Taken by surprise, John flinches from the sheer volume and ferocity of the thought.

 _"Well that's one mystery solved,"_ He thinks to himself and sighs in relief. His Gift is still working and despite all the hardships from it he's definitely soothed to know that it hasn't been taken away from him.

 _"John."_

The doctor forces his eyes to open and scans the room again and confirms what he already knows, it's empty. He can't help feel a bit disappointed that Sherlock isn't here but he pushes it aside. He's a grown man he doesn't need someone waiting at his bedside. Besides, who knows how long he had been out this time.

He scans the room once again and narrows in on the door. Above the door jamb is a plaque that reads St. Barts. No wonder the detective isn't by his side, there's a full functioning forensic lab two floors down.

 _"John. Dull."_ He snickers at Sherlock rapidly moving mind as it deduces random things about the people of Barts.Then he full out laughs. What is Sherlock doing? Walking throughout the halls deducing things about the people he passes to allieviate his boredom.

That should last him all of five minutes _ _.  
__

 _"John. I hope you are awake. New shoes."_ John hearts melts a little and then chuckles at the random memory of a nurse walking uncomfortably in one of the halls. _  
_

_"I'm lost without my telepath."_

The doctor can't help but smiling at the confession and opens the link a little more. He lets the subtle senses of lilac/honey insinuate themselves in his brain and he sighs in contentment. _  
_

 _"John."_ This time there is a hint of whine and John thinks about sending him a text to tell the genius he's awake. Then he realizes that the last time he's seen his phone had been in Mycroft's house. Damn. 

Before he can think about another alternative to get a hold of Sherlock there's a sudden, hurried glee that floats into the link and he wonders what type of trouble Sherlock's gotten himself into now. There's a shuffling outside of his door and it opens with a quick movements. The six foot, lean form of a certain consulting detective enters the room quickly and shuts the door with a hasty push. He's looking at the door, facing away from John, but the doctor can see that his face is flush with manic excitement, with a hint of intention. 

John's seen that face before, he recognizes that look. 

"What did you now? And why are you hiding from it in my room." He asks and wonders how bad of damage control he'll have to do. 

There's a sudden and hurried glee that floats into the link and then there's a shuffling outside of his door.  to to his room with glee. Sherlock shuts the door quickly, facing away from the doctor on the bed. John resists the urge to laugh out loud at the man's expression. The detective's face is flush with relief and frustration at the same time, with a tint of intention. John recognises this look, he has seen many men fall from that expression, including John himself.

"Who did you piss off? And why are you hiding in my room?" John asks surveying the genius in front of him.

"John! You're awake!" Sherlock turns abruptly and beams at John, his smile practically giving off solar flares. The detective doesn't waste any time, he walks away from the door and immediately grabs to intertwine their hands.

"How could I not be? Someone keeps call my name." John says smugly.

For a half a second, Sherlock looks confused but then there is a look of realization. 

"Really?" The lean man asks with a smile.

"Really. No side effects and no pain so far." John smiles back and lazes in Sherlock's happy expression.

"I'm glad." Sherlock says without a hint of awkwardness and the older man is instantly suspicious.

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?" John asks him and looks at him skeptically. 

Sherlock straightens himself and John can see the man start to put his barriers back up. He rapidly regrets what he's said. He would take this happy and newly emotional Sherlock over a stroppy and distant one any day.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I-" John begins but the genius raises his hand and waves John's words away.   

"I'm just happy. I'm glad you are okay. I'm not above admitting I was worried." Sherlock says and the doctor snorts but gives their hands a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm okay now." John answers back and the detective continues smiling.

Sherlock sends warmth into the connection and with it a memory. There's a flash of pictures from just minutes before, when Sherlock came into the hospital to find John awake and unharmed. The euphoria and relief that comes with the memory is so overbearing that John can't help but blush and smile stupidly.

"Oh." Is all John can say and Sherlock stands up and plants a kiss on his lips.

Its quick and then the detective is pulling back and walking away towards the door. 

"Wait," John whines. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock's already got his hand on the doorknob and Sherlock is already walking towards the door.

" _I'm seeing if the coast is clear, John."_   He pokes his head out the door and turns it to the left, then the right. He then quickly steps out, John looks down at his hands and frowns petulantly.

There's a clearing of somone's throat and John looks up again. Sherlock's poked his head through the crack in the door and is looking at the doctor.

 _"'ll be back in a little bit. Sleep. You still need rest."_   With a wink the genius is gone and John can't hold in his sigh. _"I love you."_

"I love you too, you irritating git." John says out loud to himself and decides to get some more sleep.

* * *

'A little bit', turns out to be Sherlock-speak for five hours.

Five bloody hours and counting.

John is positively, absolutely, irrevocably bored.

Bored.

Even the telly doesn't have anything interesting on. And let it be a known fact that when crap telly can't entertain John Watson then shit is going down. He sighs miserably and turns off the television again.  John turns it off again and stares around the room, looking for something to do, for the umpteenth time.

He's been waiting to see the doctor or for Sherlock to come back, either one would be acceptable.

John had taken a nap for about three hours and woken up without a thing to do. It had taken only thirty minutes after he woke up to push his way into Sherlock's brain. He had tried to read the surface thoughts of the genius but found himself cut off. The frustrating man had silenced himself off. 

John's keeping the link open anyway just to annoy the detective.

A few more silent minutes pass and John hears the door open but he, stubbornly, doesn't look away from the ceiling.

_"John."_

There's a gentle rustling of papers and then a light pressure on his chest. His gaze snaps down and he looks curiously at Sherlock and then to what has landed on his chest.

There is a folder on his chest and he doesn't know what to make of it.

"Guess what, John?" Sherlock asks and crosses the room to put a kiss on John's lips. The doctor responds with fervor because no matter how resentful he is of Sherlock leaving him, he missed him much more. 

"What?" John asks between kisses. 

The detective's lips curl up at the corners and John can feel the smile against his mouth. He brings a hand up to Sherlock's face and opens the tactile bond. Warm honey and sweet lilac meet him and rapid thoughts speed by.

"I got an MRI." Sherlock whispers proudly and there's sounds of an envelope being opened. John can feel Sherlock pulling away and he gazes down at the manilla folder in the detective's hand.

With great finesse, Sherlock pulls out the film, showing a picture of his brain. _  
_

"Wait, What?" John says bewildered and startes at the black and white picture of his partner's brain.

"I may have borrowed the hospitals' machine." Sherlock says confidently. _"This hospital doesn't know how to lock doors properly."_

"Why on earth would you get an MRI?" John asks incredulously but makes grabby hands to see it better. He holds it up so it's backlit by the light. 

Yep. It looks like a brain.

"I honestly didn't think your ego would fit onto a single piece of transparency." John says, more to himself than anything. 

"I've compared our MRIs," Sherlock states ignoring John's comment pointedly, "and I found nothing different in either films. They are both average. But, I'm the only one who seems to have any sort of progressing success in regards to your abilities. I hypothesized that I may have an abnormality."

"Wait, I can read minds and you were worried that you have an abnormality?" John questions looking away from the picture and raises his eyebrows increduously. 

"Yes. It's only logical." Sherlock responds. 

"Yes..well logic..."John mumbles. "Sherlock nothing is logical about any of this." He adds and its a mix between exasperation and adoration.

"Yes, I know, but the more we can learn about it, the better when can know the limits." Sherlock continues, already knowing he's won, if there is one thing John has trouble ignoring, it's the deep-rooted curiosity that makes him hunger to master his skills.

John knows the logic and he knows his curiousity, and he chooses not to have this arguement at the moment. 

Truth be told, the doctor's barely even scratched the surface of his ability and what he has uncovered is thanks to Sherlock. The genius has helped John master his skills more in the past few months than he had been able to do himself in the span of a year.

Together, they've learned distance limitations and they've learned how to block out white noise, (with or without Sherlock presence, which is a recent experiment that holds little success. Mostly John likes to just stick around Sherlock, but it is helpful with John's at work). 

John's also figured out people and their thought's have a scent, and with more research they've figured out that most people have two scents that intermix pleasantly with each other and they are unique to that person (in one memorable event, Sherlock who found this all very intriguing, had tried to make John only tap into just one of the scents. It failed...epicaly. The nosebleed had been awful and Sherlock, needless to say, has benched the experiment. (He's insanely adamant about not causing John pain). Nowadays, he uses the scents to open up links easier, which unless it's Sherlock, never happens. He still has impeccable self control.

With the new information, however, John has had to concede a bit and force himself to reevaluate those closest to him for familiarity. Sherlock is, of course, honey and lilac and it still warms John whenever he experiences it. The smell/taste isn't tangible like his physical senses are, instead, it's floating, weaving through the layers of peoples' minds. In order to reach it, John has to focus push out to open a connection. It's like tendrils of his mind are wiggling through the air, hoping to catch something and when they get the barest hint of someone's mental scents it latches on.

It took him months to master this new aspect of his skill and he's never been happier.

After the senses experiments (Sherlock stills insists on trying new foods to manipulate his lilac/honey sense), John's been forced to bend some his rules so he can condition himself with the palate of those closest to him.

Mrs. Hudson, in all her motherly glory, has the scents of new cotton sheets and cookies. Lestrade has the very manly senses of Bacon and freshly cut grass which is a very interesting mix but somehow works for the DI, (John hadn't even bothered with Anderson or Donovan, not really intrigued to know what goes on in their heads).

Mycroft is by far the most unpleasant, and it's not because of what his connection puts forward for senses, his bond is actually very sweet and pleasing, caramel and chocolate (to which Sherlock had snorted when John told him of Mycroft's link, mumbling something about his older brother always having a sweet tooth). No, his link is unpleasant because of the coldness the thoughts give off, it disquiets the doctor and mostly turns him off from probing inside Mycroft's mind, which is probably for the best. Then there's also the fact that Mycroft, for no other reason then he's a Holmes, manages to be aware of when John 'explores'. He notices way faster than Sherlock ever does and Mycroft honestly scares the crap out of John so he avoids looking.  

If Mycroft's is the most unpleasant, then Molly's scents are by far John's favorite, well, second favorite behind Sherlock. She smells of cinnamon and grass and whenever he finds himself in the morgue he opens the link briefly to envelop the bond. He does this rather guiltily and he refuses to tell anyone, although John's sure Sherlock knows.

The improvement of mentals scents are not the only thing that John's mastered in the past months. John's reaction to unexpected severed links have gotten increasingly better. Sherlock and he sheer stubborness has helped him make the experience less painful. This experiment's been the most difficult to test, mostly because they had to get someone to touch John without rising suspicion or hurting John. In the end, Sherlock had just asked Mrs. Hudson to touch John for an experiment. The landlady hadn't even batted an eye at Sherlock's excuse and laid a hand onto John's exposed forearm. At the time, John hadn't probe her mind and instead chatted about crap telly, which Sherlock made notes occasionally lifted the old lady's hand off John at abrupt intervals.

The first time they had lifted Mrs. Hudson arm off John unexpectedly, John had gotten a nosebleed, which had startled their poor landlady. He had to convince the poor woman that he's prone to nosebleeds and it had been a complete coincidence.

They hadn't tried the experiment again for a week, Sherlock had been apprehensive in hurting John. The older man would bring it up and Sherlock would decline, stating it had been too soon to try again. John eventually took matters into his own hands and invited Mrs. Hudson for tea. She had agreed without hesitation, and even teased the doctor about his nosebleed.

Sherlock had been, naturally, reluctant at first, but then John had encouraged Mrs. Hudson to touch his forearm, Sherlock had been forced to continue, well, forced being a strong word to use. John had seen the pensive, almost maniacal look on the detective's face.

John had welcomed her senses, the cotton and cookies filling his mind and he probed her mind gently, he had smiled when he felt pure adoration coming from the landlady. It had been in that moment that John had realized how much he cares for Mrs. Hudson. Then, Sherlock had broken the link abruptly causing John to blink but only get a faint headache.

These sessions are still ongoing actually, but John's gotten surprisingly better at dealing with severed links. It's astonishing simple, the solution is all about conditioning. John is learning that when touched, he automatically begins a safety barrier of his mind so he is ready instantly when the connection is broken. The results are fascinating, John never thought he would be able to master his ability like this.

However, John can't help but wonder if his new control is genuine, is it becoming easier and easier to be prepared for severed links because he's familiar with Mrs. Hudson or is it because he is actually getting better?

 _"John."_ Sherlock pulls him out of his thoughts.

John hadn't heard any of Sherlock's previously thoughts, granted they had been weak and faint attempts while the detective had been distracted by the two pieces of film in his hand. 

Although, he's moved himself into the chair beside John's bed sometime in the span of the doctor's thinking.

"Is that my MRI?" John asks just noticing the second transparency in the younger man's hands.

"Yes. How else am I supposed to compare them?" Sherlock replies and John can see the man eying him through the transparencies.

"How did you even get that? Do you just break into every office in the building?" John snorts.

"John, you are very sarcastic and grumpy this time around in the hospital." Sherlock states instead of answering the question.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but you didn't answer my question. I still want to know how you got my MRI." John huffs and wishes he could just go home already. 


	10. Intruder at Baker Street

"Are we going to talk about Moriarty?" John asks one day. They've been dancing around the subject of the party for weeks now and John's about sick of it. He's taken to asking Sherlock at random points about what happened, since his memory of the night is hazy at best. The detective, however, refuses to discuss it, instead he changes the topic to the John's never ending frustration.

Today though, John's curiousity is high and he's wants an answer. The two of them are lounging about in the flat after a grueling case that had lasted an entire week.

"What about him?" Sherlock questions distantly. The genius has been in the kitchen staring into to his microscope for the past hour and John can't fathom what is so interesting about the nasty, green blob he's looking at.

"How about the fact that he drugged an entire party right under your brother's nose?" John says putting his newspaper down and turning in his chair to look at the younger man.

 _"Mycroft's still pissed about it."  
_ The thought comes through and John

"Oh, that?" John says incredulously but he resists the urge to shout, as much as he'd like to.

It's seems the more they talk, or rather don't talk about that night the more annoyed John gets. Moriarty had tried to shoot Sherlock and John's getting really sick of the detective's nonchalant attitude about it.

_"John. It's nothing. He just wanted me to know that he had the upper hand in the game."_

"The game?" John says and this time his voice is a bit louder, "What game? That man tried to kill you." He lifts himself off the chair in a huff and starts towards the kitchen. 

_"Dull."_

John flails his arms in exasperation looks about the room before saying, "What did he say to you on the phone?"

 _"Nothing of importance. He's said he wanted to burn the heart out of me."_   John watches Sherlock shurg his shoulder minutely without losing focus on his experiment.

"Burn the heart... What?" John asks and comes to a full stop next to Sherlock.

Instead of replying, Sherlock says nothing and John hangs his head and takes deep breaths to control his anger. 

"I don't get it. Who is this guy, Sherlock?" John questions once he's calm again. There's a movement out of the corner of his eye and lifts his head up to watch Sherlock pull away from his equipment slightly. The first physical response John has gotten to his interrogation.

"I'm not entirely sure who he is." Sherlock says and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet and John sees the emotions playing across the genius's face. Disappoinment, concern,  confusion, anger, fear, and a bit of sadness. They flash across his face quickly and John's automatically softening his own face and anger in response.

Maybe the reason Sherlock's been avoiding this conversation is because he has acutally concerns about Moriarty's words.

"Sherlock," John begins and doesn't really know what to say to reassure his partner. Sherlock doesn't look at him and fidgets slightly which causes John to instinctively reach out and cup his hand against the other man's cheek. The bond open ups instantaneously and John hears Sherlock's gasp of surprise before he's being hit with a flash of memory.

***

_"I see that Johnny Boy, your pet, is very loyal. Although, he seems a tad drunk...or maybe its drugged?"  The now familiar Irish voice pierces through Sherlock's brain as he looks out at Mycroft's large lawn.  
_

_"Who are you?" Sherlock's deep baritone oozes confidence and boredom.  
_

_There's a gasp on the other line that has the genius rolling his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm offended. You should know me."  
_

_"I think I would remember a lunatic." Sherlock responds flatly.  
_

_"That's the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me." The sing-song voice echoes over the phone line and the detective resists the urge to sigh with annoyance.  
_

_"Who are you?" Sherlock repeats and he's losing his patience.  
_

_"Fine. No need to get so tetchy, Sherlock. My name is James Moriarty, but you can definitely call me Jim." The voice purrs in response._

_If Sherlock had been anyone else, he would have shivered with disgust, instead he apathetically says, "What do you want, Moriarty?"_

_"All work and no play, makes Sherlock a dull boy." The Irish man sings with creepy lilts and Sherlock rolls his eyes again, he remains unmoving and silent, hoping whoever this man is will just get on with it.  
_

_"Fine, tough crowd. I want to burn the heart out of you." Moriarty finally says and Sherlock is just glad that there had been a point to all of this._

_"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." He says convincingly.  
_

_"Well, now? We both now that's not quite true." The voice says and Sherlock's usually astounding self-control fails and he finds himself risking a glance backwards to check on John. The doctor' appears to be fine. He's still sitting, in the chair opposite the fireplace but he seems to be figdeting and there's a look of unease on his face. Sherlock puts that information away for another time and turns back to the window, determined to end this conversation and take John home.  
_

_He opens his mouth to say goodbye or something equally as dismissive but Moriarty beats him to it.  
_

_"Yes, John Watson. Your-oh how should I put it? Overly sensitive boyfriend." The man says and Sherlock freezes.  
_

_His what?  
_

_"What?" Sherlock says and tries to keep his voice neutral.  
_

_"Oh come on," Moriarty says with a huff, "Don't tell me you, the World's Only Consulting Detective, hasn't seen that there is somthing different with Johnny boy."  
_

_Could Moriarty be talking what Sherlock thinks he's talking about?  
_

_"I'm sorry to inform you, but John is painfully ordinary." Sherlock replies coldly.  
_

_"You really are a terrible liar, Sherlock. No matter, if I were you, I would be worrying about Johnny and your current predicament at this moment." Moriarty says.  
_

_Before Sherlock can respond with confusion, there's an impact on his side and gravity pulls him down while the sound of glass fracturing echoes the room.  
_

__  
***  
 __  
The whole flashback takes a little over two seconds to play from beginning to end and the next thing John knows Sherlock's jerking his head backwards, dislodging his face from John's hand, while simultaneously silencing the mental connection.  
  
John reels back and his body staggers and sways. He compulsorily shoots a hand out to latch onto the kitchen table for support. He leans on the table out of necessity as his head swirls in an unfamiliar daze. He can feel the headache starting to form already.

 

The memory is powerful, more compelling and dominant than anything John has ever experienced. Confusion and uncertainity erupt through him and he tries to quell his panic, but the headache is coming in full force and its not long before he can feel the recognizable wetness beneath his nose.

"John." He hears Sherlock's voice of concern and the doctor forces himself to take deep breaths.

He's not ignoring Sherlock on purpose, its more he doesn't think he can actually talk let alone articulate sentences. He takes another deep breath and tries to close his eyes before he realizes they are already closed, very tightly in pain.

John has no idea how long he standing there before he feels hands on his clothed body. He flinches and tenses automatically, waiting for the pain but nothing comes. Instead, the hands guide him gently across the flat and onto the sofa.

This severe of a reaction has never happened with Sherlock before and John doesn't know what to think about it.

_"John."_

He winces at the intrusion and tries to shake his head. "Not yet, Sherlock." He says quietly and hears the familiar shaking of the paracetamol bottle. He holds his hand out silently and there are two pills dropped gently into his hands. He swallows the pills and waits for his headache to subside.

In the meantime, he has his endless questions to occupy him. Things like, why had the break been so violent? Had it been because of the flashback? What if it's somehow connected to Moriarty?

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock's soft voice interrupts John's thoughts and he forces his eyes open. "I shouldn't have pulled away."

Sherlock is apologising.

 _"Watson, you are either a really good influence or a really bad one."_ John can't but chuckle to himself, his headache almost gone, leaving behind a minimal tolerable throb. His head is leaning against the back of the sofa, his eyes facing the ceiling and he stares at it distractedly for a few seconds before lowering his head completely. Sherlock is sitting on the coffee table across from him with his hands reaching out mid air awkwardly, like he wants to touch John but is afraid to.

John sighs leans foward, closing the distance to grab the man's hands. He grimaces at the contact, more out of apprehension than actual pain and he sighs in relief when the contact remains pain free. He senses movement and watches as the genius grabs a nearby tissue and wipes at John's nose, cleaning up the blood apologetically.

"It's not your fault," John says softly, "We didn't know that I could have this type of reaction with you." He adds and grabs the man's hands again to pull him to the sofa. They end up sitting side by side, their shoulders touching and leaning into each other for warmth contact.

Through their bare and connected hands, John feels the safety and heat wash over him and he knows it's Sherlock's doing, even though there seems to be no accompanying memories.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks after a few minutes of silence. All evidence of the attack is gone, and his pain from the headache and the broken connection is fading.

_"I believe sentiment got in the way."_

John tilts his head in confusion and looks into Sherlock's eyes. They share eye contact for a second before the detective looks away purposefully, hiding.

_"I didn't want scare you."_

_  
_The thought surprises John, he had never expected those words to come from the genius. It makes John feel warm inside to know that Sherlock's cares about his emotional well being and he takes a second to appreciate how far the detective's come since they first met.

"Come on," John says soothingly and leans forward to try and catch the other man's gaze, "I was a soldier remember. It takes a lot more than that to scare me." He smiles and cups Sherlock's cheek, pulling those cheekbones to force the man to look at John.

Once Sherlock sees John's reassuring expression, he returns the smile briefly before his face going neutral again and the telepath decides to leave this conversation for later, when Sherlock isn't so visibly upset.

For the time being, a peaceful silence reigns the flat, just the two of them in each other reassuring presence.

The silence last for about five minutes longer before Sherlock's starts to fidget, his eyes calculating.

" _The way you reacted.."_

John hums and looks at Sherlock questioningly. 

 _"I'm having a hard time comprehending it. It's an outlier compared to all the previous times."_ Sherlock's shoulder sag and John squeezes their conjoining hands comfortingly.

"It was strong." John says, "Way more powerful than normal."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. _"Why?"_

"I don't know, but I think it has to do with Moriarty. He is the only common factor, It makes sense." John states nonchalantly.

_"Oh."_

John sighs and rubs his temples as the last of the throbbing dissipates.

 _"I didn't mean to hurt you."_ _  
_

"No, I shouldn't have pried." John says looking at Sherlock and shrugging. "Besides, I don't condition myself around you so I wasn't prepared like I normally am." The doctor shifts and lays down so his head's in Sherlock's lap. The detective startles for a second but keeps their hands linked. He brings his free hand onto John's head, reluctantly at first, but then Sherlock's fingers relax and stroke the doctor's head soothingly.

"We are going to have to do something about Moriarty." John states tiredly but with finality.

 _"I know."_ Sherlock sighs, formulating a plan. _  
_

* * *

John exits the tube station closest to home and walks in the direction of the flat. His shift for the day had been short and its mostly due to Sherlock's interference. Ever since ingesting the drug, the detective insists John take it slow (even though its been over a month). Instead of fighting and being stubborn (like usual) he decides to humor the younger man for a couple of weeks or until Sherlock forgets and finds a new case.

He still takes precautions of course, doubling up gloves and wearing his earphones when he's not in range of Sherlock. Other than that, nothings really been different, and with each passing day without a sign of Moriarty, John finds himself relaxing more and more.

Presently, the doctor is just about to turn the corner onto Baker street when his days starts to change drastically.

 _"John."_ The doctor smiles happily. During the day, John finds himself missing the detective's hyperactive thoughts and finds himself sighing in relief as he gets closer to Baker Street.

 _"John don't come into the flat."_ Sherlock's thoughts project and the telepath huffs in annoyance, because what? Why can't he come home? He's instantly suspicious and his first thought is what kind of horrendous experiment-caused mess awaits him now? He's already ramping up and about three seconds from running around the corner and into the flat to demand an explanation when Sherlock sends more into the bond.

_"Shut up you idiot. There's an intruder."_

It stops John dead in his tracks, one step shy of turning onto Baker Street as his face goes blank.

Intruder?

Without hesitation he opens the link with Sherlock and is instantly impacted with lilac and honey. It relaxes the doctor a smidge so he can concentrate a bit more. Sherlock's thoughts are calm and observant but John can tell the genius is filtering his thoughts, whether or not its to prevent John from worrying or something else is anyone's guess. But John does get one thing through the link. It's fast but there is a quick flash of a stranger looming over Sherlock.

There's someone in the flat.

But, Sherlock's in the flat.

Something snaps within him and he goes on the defensive. He lets his instincts flow through him and gazes around the street. There could be more than one, someone else acting as a lookout, but, after a quick sweep he finds nothing obvious and breathes a sigh of relief.

He contemplates for a quick second before coming up with a plan. He turns in a smooth 180 degree step and walks away from Baker Street. Still checking for tails and suspcious persons, John stealthily ducks into a dark alleyway about halfway down the block.

He's learned a few things since living with Sherlock, one of them being alternate (read: secret) routes to their flat and ways to disappear from view (read: CCTV).

Well, that last one is more about hiding from Mycroft than it's actually learning from Sherlock.

_"John."_

The doctor exhales and relaxes his shoulders and pokes back gently at the Sherlock's mind. He concentrates, closes his eyes, and sees through the detective's eyes and into the flat. Sherlock must be sitting on the couch, based on the picture that's coming through the link. He's sees the man again, and tries to stifle the sudden burst of anger. His breath hitches but he forces himself to remain calm. 

Then, the vision seems to narrow, sort of tunnel like, and all John can make out is small, dark gaping hole that he recognizes instantly. Someone is point a gun right at his partner's head.  

_"John."_ The detective's thoughts are slightly panicking but John doesn't let that distract him. The anger that's been threatening to bubble over is reaching alarming heights along with a steady stream of fear. He has to push the emotions away as he starts walking faster and further into the alleyway. 

There's a flash and jolt and John can instantly feel the shock of pain coming through the link and knows immediately its from Sherlock.

The stranger picked the wrong ex-army doctor to mess with. 

Who the hell is in the flat? How dare they? He asks himself as he pulls out his phone and angrily texts Lestrade and Mycroft.

He finally comes upon the fire escape and starts to climb, all the while mumbling to himself,  angry and threatening thoughts about the intruder to fuel his rage.

Sherlock had shown John the fire escape when he first moved in. Obviously, its had been installed for fires but John had quickly found out that it could also be used for nosy detectives who don't understand how locked doors work. It had been the third time walking in on Sherlock trashing his room (who knows why) before he decided to get a lock for his window.

A lock that he just so happens to keep the key on hand.

Just as John reaches the window and opens it, there's another flash of pain that takes him by surprise, almost causing him to fall through the newly opened window. He can see the man's lips moving but Sherlock isn't recognizing the words, whether its due to pain or general disinterest is anyone's guess. Although, John wouldn't be shocked to learn the detective choose to ignore a burgular because they bored him _.  
_

Through the fading pain of the link, John hears Sherlock's thoughts bounce through. _"John, I think they are looking for you."_

He sighs and gingerly steps into his old bedroom, making virtually no sound. He wonders who would be looking for him? 

John doesn't stop to ponder it too much, he sticks to the plan. He's coining it Kick The Stranger's Ass for Hurting Sherlock. He toes off his shoes, to prevent more noise and walks to his old wardrobe in the corner. 

He's taking to hiding his gun in random spots around the flat as to not make it too easy for the detective to shoot up the walls. Thank god, his spot for the week just so happens to be up here. He rummages quietly until his finds the reassuring weapon and then checks the clip and the safety. He nods with satisfaction and walks over to the closed door. 

The door opens with a predictable creak, but he only widens it enough to slip through so the noise is minimal. As he descends the steps, Sherlock's jumbled pain and deductions shine through the connection and John finds himself cursing all the deities.

He tiptoes down the stairs, expertly avoiding the known creaky ones, the gun a comforting advantage in his hand.

John makes it to the final step and peers down the small hallway, the door to the sitting room is closed but the kitchen doors open. He can see the table and the sink and the bloody mess that had been there this morning is still there (even though John had told the genius to clean it up) but other than that, there's nothing, or more specifically no one around.  He takes the last step and creeps across the small hall so his back is against the opposite wall. He can sort of hear the muffled voices of the stranger and Sherlock from the other side of the wall but he can't make anything out. 

Recalculating a bit, he decides to use the door to the kitchen as his advantage, intending to sneak up on the man. He could have the element of surprise. Nodding to himself, he quietly walks the short way to the kitchen. He looks into the link to see where the man is. The stranger is facing Sherlock, which gives John an uneasy feeling but it works to his advantage. He quickly but quietly goes through door and around the corner. He peeks his head around the corner and almost loses it right there.

The first thing he notices is the multiple cases of blood. They seem to be mostly scrapes and cuts, like someone's being using him as a punching bag but they thankfully don't seem life threatening. The worst one is probably the head wound on his temple, its still bleeding sluggishly and there's a trickling path down the side of his face. It looks as if he's been pistol whipped and that makes John angry.

If the wounds all over the genius's body hadn't been enough to get John's blood boiling, the intricate rope bindings would do the trick. It's weird and creative and for the life of him, John can't figure out why it's necessary. There are three separate rope trails. The first two start around each of Sherlock's thin wrists and then individually slither down the cushions and are tied to the legs of the couch, making Sherlock's arms spread uncomfortably wide. It should make him unbalanced and leaning forward but the third ropes prevents that because it's tied around his neck taunt and disappearing down the back of the couch. It doesn't appear to be actually choking the detective but its a near thing. 

John can't stop thinking how much time it took and how impratical it is.

Unless its some sort of power play to intimidate the both of them.

Look at what I can do? Look at what I had time to accomplish while you were weak? 

_"John."_

The doctor shakes the thoughts away and forces his eyes to look up and find Sherlock's bright gray orbs. He has to hold in the loud sigh of relief that would have most assuredly blown his cover. Instead, he nods and smiles reassuringly and moves further into the room, lifting his pistol to eye level and taking a deep breath.

" _John, don't."_ Sherlock's worried thoughts echo but John has a plan. 

He advances on the unsuspecting man and puts the muzzle of his gun against the stranger's bare neck. "We have a door, you could've knocked civily." John says neutrally and watches as the other male tenses.

The intruder says nothing and John looks over at Sherlock quickly double check on him again. In that moment of distraction, the man moves. He swings he arms up and around and in one powerful move, he manages to knock the gun out of John's steady grip, sending it flying under the desk out of reach.

John tries to throw a punch but the man grabs his shirts and the next thing he knowns, John is falling backwards. The doctor's back hits the ground with a loud thump, the wind momentarily knocked out of him. He sees a flash of black and he reacts. John throws his hands up instinctively blocks the approaching gun, pushing away from his body. He forces the man's hands away and rolls them so he ends up straddling the stranger who startles in surprise. During the intruder's distraction, John swiftly grabs for the gun and after a struggle he tears it out of the other guy's hand and points the barrel straight into the his face. 

"What do you want?" John pants angrily and the intruder's eyes widen and flash brightly.

"Mr. Moriarty sends his love." He smiles toothily and like a cobra he attacks. His hand snaps faster than John can block and suddenly there is a hand on the doctor's bare neck. 

The tactile connection is quick to start and John winces at the unexpected connection. The man grabs the gun swiftly out of John's hand and then flips them both over. He now lays underneath the thug who seems to weigh more than he looks. John struggles beneath the mammoth and the connection is starting to hurt and smell of sewer. He tries to shut the link off, not wanting to familiarize himself with the man, but he just grips John's neck tighter.

 _"Does he know?"_ John can barely hear Sherlock's thoughts over the man's memories flashing through the doctor's head. Memories of dead people, corpses laying in alleyways.

The intruder pushes his knees into John's side with hurtful force and the telepath lets out a gasp in pain. He tries to get pass the filthy thoughts and stank to figure out a plan but he's drowing and he can't seem to surface.

 _"I don't know why boss finds you interesting but I guess I don't really care. I'm just doing my job."_ The intruder thinks and John blinks at him in confusion. Does he know? John tries not to panic or give anything away, he struggles as if he didn't hear the man.

"I don't know why boss finds you interesting, I don't really care. I'm just doing my job." The man says out loud and John sighs in relief. The intruder's eyes flash in hostility and he points the gun at John's temple.

 _"_ I've been shot before," John writhes and pants, trying to smother the painful link, "I don't really wish to be shot again,"

"I know Dr. Watson. I'm not here to shot _you_." The man says and smiles again. In one swift movement he's moving the gun away from John and aiming it directly at Sherlock. His eyes widen in fear.

"No." John cries out and struggles, bending his back to get free, but the man's knees push into his side harder arresting his movements. "No. Shoot me."

 _"Shut up John."_ Sherlock thoughts call out.

He's panicking. This went from an intrusion to a hit and John doesn't know how to stop it. He writhes and moves trying to do something. He even willingly goes into the connection, into the sewer smelling link, trying to find something, anything to stop this from happening.

An image of a little blond girl with a small backpack pops up, _Amelia_ is written on the fabric.

"What about Amelia? Who will look after her when I kill you for killing Sherlock?" John remarks angrily. He can feel his neck and sides brusing from the man's constant attention.

"How do you know about her?" The man whips his head back stares angrily down at John. He brings the gun back and places it directly over John's heart.  

_"John!"_

John ignores Sherlock's pleas and the strain of two connections at once is starting to take it's toll on John, but he doesn't dare break either one.

"Oh, so you do care about her." John teases, smiling menacingly and stilling his body.

"Shut up!" The man yells and then John feels a sudden pain across his cheek. His head is thrown to the side due to the force of the hit. There's a stinging sensation on hs cheek and in his mouth where he bit his tongue a bit from the unsuspecting blow. He hazily bring his head forward again, just in time to see the man's eyes boiling with rage.

"You don't get to talk about my little girl." Moriarty's thug says and John tries focus on the connection through the haze again on his connection. John sees the though in the man's head before he moves his aim back to the detective.

"NO!" John yells and uses all his strength to move beneath the man, and he manages to sit up, enough to push the man back just as the shot is fired. The sound echoes but then room quiets but John can feel the two connections and one of them has pain coming through it.

"NO. SHERLOCK!" John bellows and the man forces John down to the ground again. He tries to look over at Sherlock but the thug is blocking his view. 

The stress of the situation and the two connections are taking their toll on John as he tries to dislodge the man. Finally, John is able to swing a wild punch that somehow connects to the stranger's face and has him lurching to the side, just enough for John to catch a glimpse of the detective.

His body is sprawled across the couch awkwardly, ropes preventing the genius going any particular direction.

"Sherlock!" John screams and he can see the red spot grow bigger on the front of Sherlock's shirt. Then, another fist comes flying and there's pain in John's face again it causes him to fall back to the ground. He actually hits his head, hard, upon the wood flooring and it jars him a bit. Black spots dance in his vision for a second and his mind fuzzes and it's getting harder and harder to deal with the mental strain of the connections.

"Ah, you made me miss," The intruder says angrily, gripping his jaw.  He leans down to whispering John's ear and tightens his hand against the back of his neck. "Maybe I'll wait, and let the skinny guy be in pain for a while before I kill him. I've always like watching them suffer." The intruder says and John bucks his hips against the man.

"Sherlock." He gasp out between the headache forming and his vision attempting to refocus.

 _"I'm okay, I'm okay. It's just the shoulder."_ Sherlock's thoughts pierce into John's mind painfully and he doesn't stop moving.

"What do yo want?" John snaps, hoping for a distraction while he tries to probe Sherlock's mind in order to feel how much pain he's in. 

"I told you Moriarty sent me." The man says, "And as much fun as this is, I'm pretty sure the elder Holmes will be here soon so I have to wrap it up." With that, the intruder lifts up his gun once more and aims it at Sherlock, this time John knows he's going for a head shot.

The adrenaline surges through John and his fuzziness clears for a split second and is instantly replaced by pure, adulterated anger. John feels the sewer laced connection and digs deep into his mind, trying to clamp onto something, anything, he wants to hurt this man, he wants the man to feel pain.

Suddenly, the intruder arches his back in pain and falls to one side, his body limp and unmoving and his grip releases John who immediately struggles away from him, panting. He grabs the man's gun and instantly runs to Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" John yells at the limp form of the detective.

 _"Sh. Of course, stop yelling."_ Sherlock moans in pain and John rips open his shirt and starts to inspect the bullet hole. Sherlock opens his eyes at the pain, wincing at the examination.

Sherlock's eyes scan around the room, finding anything to distract from the pain. His eyes find the unmoving stranger.

"John, what did you do?"


	11. Chapter 11

_Intruder in the flat. Come if you want, Sherlock's hurt. - JW_

Mycroft stares at the words he had recieved some twenty minutes ago all but ignoring the London streets blurring past through the windows of his black sedan. Lestrade, who had coincidentally been with the elder Holmes at the time, sits next to him, eyes looking at his own phone.

"I'm sure its fine." Lestrade says for the umptenth time. Mycroft gives a noncommittal hum and doesn't move.

Twenty three minutes and ten seconds since the text had been sent, a black sedan screeches to a stop in front of Baker Street.

* * *

_"John what did you do?"_

John blinks, glancing over his shoulder quickly. He doesn't feel anything, he  _knows_ he should feel something, regret for the dead man. Maybe fear, or panic at the how the man came to be dead in the first place. He should be freaking out, but he can't fathom the emotions right now for the stranger. In all honestly, he doesn't care. 

The doctor can only think about Sherlock, who's bleeding from a gunshot wound that's been given to him by the man John killed.

God, it sounds like a bad soap that the detective is always forcing John to watch on the telly.

In the end, he chooses to ignore Sherlock's question and ask instead, "Sherlock? Are you hurt anywhere else?" John runs a hand over the restrained genius, cataloguing and looking for more injuries before putting his hand over the man's shoulder. He pushes down, applying pressure and becoming slightly alarmed at the amount of blood that is slowing staining his fingers.

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the dead body on the floor and shakes his head before wincing.

_"It's fine."_

John summons his best unimpressed and skeptcial look before pulling his phone out of his pocket dialing an ambulance while Sherlock sheepishly looking away.

With emergency services on their way, he focuses back on the matter at hand. He needs more supplies and he needs them now but the genius is bleeding and not to mention still tied up. John looks around frantically, spending a little to much time on the dead body on the ground before finally residing on the mantle above the fireplace.

A plan forms and he's going to have to move quickly.

"Hang on, Sherlock." John says calmly and looks into the younger man's eyes. Sherlock nods and the doctor moves.  He runs into the kitchen, grabbing the first towel he can find before dashing to the fireplace. He yanks the pen knife from the ornate wood. The letters and bills that had been capture there fall listlessly and scatter amoung the ground. 

By the time the last letter falls, John is alreadly working on untying Sherlock.

He goes quickly, sawing through the tough ropes, slashing the constricting tendrils of Moriarty away.

"Sherlock?" John says as he keeps cutting, "Keep talking." The detective has gone relatively quiet and John looks up into the man's pain-induced gaze. Finally, the last of the ropes fall away and Sherlock goes limp and leans to one side. John grips him and gently reclines him against the back of the couch. Then his hands, with the help of the towel this time, go back to putting pressure on the wound.

If John can keep pressure on the wound, Sherlock should last until the paramedics get here.

 _"No, will. Sherlock will make it._ " John yells at himself and pushes a bit harder.

Sherlock's eyes close and his breath turns shallow. 

"Sherlock." John shouts and its more of a reprimand. "Keep. Talking." He says and he tries not to let the panic and concern show.

 _"Ow."_ The connection says but the thoughts are dull and fuzzy, as if Sherlock is trying not to display how much he is acutally hurting.

Without hesitation, John presses the towel onto Sherlock's shoulder causing the man to jolt in pain, his eyes snapping open and his mouth dropping.

The connection is on fire. Whatever Sherlock had been trying to contorl and hold back is now flowing unrestrained through the connection and John has to push the onslaught of emotions aside and focus.

_"This is what it feels like to get shot."_

John grits his teeth and looks softly into the detective's eyes.

"Welcome to the club." He says dryly and brings his hand up to Sherlock's neck, checking vitals and pulse. The tactile bond opens even more, pain pushing at John's defense but with it, the familiar warmth of lilac and honey. It fades in and out as he moves his hand, from the detective's clammy face to the bleeding shoulder and back again. Sherlock closes his eyes again and John delves into his unguarded thoughts. He assess Sherlock's pain level and alsmot cries out.

 _"Talk about sympathy pains."_ John thinks to himself darkly.

"Sherlock." The doctor says expels sadly, grabbing the man's hand and squeezes. The connection opens instantly and the feelings of lilac and honey come back and John tries to force the pain out and replace it with feelings of safety, calm, and warmth. Sherlock's body seems to relax a small amount.

The blood is starting to seep through the towel.

"Are you doing that?" Sherlock gasps and his eyes blink loosely.

"Shh..don't talk." John soothes and prays that the paramedics will be here soon.

_"Not to long ago you were asking me to talk. But, fine. Are you doing that?"_

"Did it work?" John asks and tries to remeber to be amazed at the new ability later. Preferrably when Sherlock's not bleeding all over.

 _"I feel calm and safe."_ Sherlock thinks and John can feel that start of a memory coming through the link, but halfway there, the detective takes a deep breath and gives up, the effort to much of a strain for him. _"I didn't know you could do that. What else..."_

Any other time and John would be amused by Sherlock's endless curiosity but not now. "Shh..Another time. We will talk about it another time."

True to how dire the situation is, Sherlock doesn't even argue. He nods vacantly while John puts both hands over the towel and pushes as angry tears threaten to spill.

* * *

Lestrade's the first one out of the car and to the front door of Baker Street, but Mycroft's not far behind.  happens to be on the side cl is the first one out of the sedan and up the stairs, Mycroft follows behind him with agile astuteness.

They both ascend the stairs and open the door to the sitting room, Mycroft with a bit more grace than Greg but together they freeze. Their gazes roam the room sporactically before falling on the two people they came to see.

The politician's brains deduces everything right away without even thining about it.

Masked intruder. Dead. No visible wounds. Evidence of a fight. Dr. Watson and man wrestling on the floor. Drops of blood around the sofa. Faint smell of gunpowder in the air. Gun shot victim with probable concussion. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Greg, however, immediatly focuses on Sherlock and his training kicks in. "Bloody hell." He gives a stunted sigh and rushes over to the doctor, his face full of strife and confusion.

"Ambulance should be here any minute." Mycroft says from the doorway, and if it had been anyone else, John would have assumed he had been frozen in shock.

"He's losing a lot of blood." Lestrade states kneeling next to John and his hands are ghosting over the thin man. The uncertainty bounces from his mind but John only vaguely catches it.

Up until this point, Sherlock's eyes had been open, albeit foggy with pain but now they close non-voluntarily.

"Sherlock stay with me. Keep talking." John encourages, pleads.

 _"Do make up your mind. You just told me not to talk."_ There's definitely some bitterness there but John finds relief in the fact that Sherlock's still conscious, even the established link seems to be getting weaker.

John finds he has to resist the urge to laugh at the detective's antics, considering they hadn't been said out loud and laughing would come off as a bit loony. His laugh may have gone unnoticed by Lestrade but the doctor is acutely aware of how closely Mycroft pays attention to things.

Despite the pain and his own worries he forces himself back into Sherlock's weakening mind. He concentrates and does the same thing as before. He thinks about happy memories and pushes them through the link. He only has to reminisce on two memories before the younger man takes over. Sherlock pushes his favorite memories to John and the doctor is content watching them idly, while silent tears fall.

All he can think, if the memories still come, Sherlock is still breathing.

He pushes down on Sherlock's shoulder, watching the memories while the rest of the flat is silent, save the heavy breathing.

The sudden sound of the paramedics rushing up the steps startles John a bit and then everything is chaos.

He almost doesn't move out of the way, debating making the EMTs work around him but he knows how important these next few minutes are so he moves out of the way. The happy memories from Sherlock are fading so John pushes some to pick up the slack.

_"John."_

He doesn't back up too far, he hovers over the working men and double checks what they're doing. 

_"Dull, I hate hospitals."_

Weak phrases would fade in and out and John can sense Sherlock's fading consciousness. For one last ditch effort, he sends waves of icy cold memoris to force the detective to stay awake.  For a millisecond, John smugly sees a shiver run through the detective's body.

_"John."_

The paramedics poke and prod him and the thought comes through with pain and panic. John's already fissuring heart breaks a bit more. _  
_

Then it happens.

One second.

That's all it takes for John's entire world to come crashing down around him. For his world to stop revolving.

Between one second and the next the connection goes suddenly silent. It severs mid-thought, all sense of lilac and honey evaporating instantly. John gasps harshly but orders himself not to react, even though his head aches and his heart shatters. The hairs on the back of John's neck stand up and he scans the genuis and notices the lax face and shut eyes, not tightly out of pain.

Something's wrong.

"Sherlock!" John screams and dashes to the detective reaching out to find his pulse. He's expecting, hoping to find a heart beat and a the surge of mental warmth but there's nothing. It's blank and cold and John's disoriented and he feels his head explode and the blood gush from his nose. John's never had a connection with someone who's gone into cardiac arrest before.

"There is no pulse!" John screams at the paramedics, who had orginally been startled by the shorter man screaming at them immediately set to work. Not fast enough in John's opinion and he's about to push one of them out of his way when strong arms grab him around the waist.

He fights because its an instinct. He yells and flails and tries to get away.

"John! John! calm down. They's doing CPR." He vaguely hears Lestrade's voice over his pounding headache and his own yelling. John watches in horror, trying to latch onto some familiar mental anything. He screams Sherlock's name and writhes in the DI's grip.

One second.

It's simultaneaously the time it takes for John's world to start back up again. 

One second more and there's a struggling breath escaping the detective's lips. John sees it escape and he stops moving, focusing instead on concentrating. His face is wet with tears and blood but he searches for the lilac/honey duo. They're distance but John latches intensely. None of the thoughts coming from Sherlock make sense. It's all jumble of a phrases and a lot of 'Johns'.

The doctor tries not to collapse in relief as he calls out to the breathing genius.

"Sherlock." John he says brokenly and the around his waist tightens as he watches the paramedics load the detective onto the stretcher and out the door.

* * *

A lot of things happen in the time between the events at Baker Street and where John is now, not that he remembers them. No, he just remembers arriving here and being told to wait.

And that's what he's doing, sitting in a private room, hoping and waiting desperately for good news.

The doctor's legs curl against his chest with his arms wrapping tightly around his knees. There's blood on his shirt, some of it belongs to Sherlock but most of his. It's sticking to his chest uncomfortably but he can't find in himself to change, let alone move. Instead, he stays in this position, despite the ache in his leg, head, and shoulder.

It wouldn't be too outrageous to say he's suffering from a mild case of shock. He occasionally shivers and he seems to have this tenacious idea to not move for anything other than news of Sherlock.

The genius has been in surgery for about four hours now and John is slowly losing his patience.

He vaguely remembers storming into the hospital, a whirlwind of emotions and solider-like commands with Lestrade and Mycroft in his wake. He had terrorized nurses and doctors, demanding that someone inform him of Sherlock's condition. He knows his temper tantrum would have put any of Sherlock's to shame.

It had been Mycroft and Lestrade who had rallied the apoplectic doctor into a hospital chair and try to talk sense in him. It took both men to calm the doctor down enough to allow a nurse to treat his bruised face (which he had forgotten about) and bloodied face. Finally, they had been able to calm his thoughts and make him see reason. John remembers coming out of his angry trance apologetic and shameful. He had instantly gone silent and he hasn't really spoken since.

Mycroft left first, there had been a heated phone call and by the time he announced he had to leave for a short while, his face had been red with frustration and irritation.

An hour had passed when Lestrade recieved summons in a similar manner. Sally had called him and Greg had to go back to Baker Street. His reasons had been vague but then again John had been in a daze and couldn't find it in himself to care or read the DI's thoughts.

In fact, he only remembers them leaving because they both made a point to tell him they would be back as soon as they could.

John doesn't understand why it matters if they're here or not, he'd still be staring at the wall opposite, regardless if they're presence. He'd still be holding his arms around his knees tightly, as if to shield himself from the possibility of bad news and extreme probabilities.

During all of this hoopla, the rampage and  the stubborn shock, his brain hadn't been idle. John's been systematically scanning the entire hospital for the familiar lilac and honey senses. At one point, hours ago now, he had gotten the faintest hint of lilac and latched on immediately only to realise seconds later that it had been a strange nurse on the third floor. John, out of bitter curiosity had held the connection for a little bit, something he's never done before. He's never blindly, nor willingly, followed an unfamiliar connection (that hadn't been the subject of an experiment).

After a while, John had gotten bored and broke the connection. While the nurse had been a welcomed distraction, John only wants to hear, feel, see, hold Sherlock.

He buries his head further into his knees, his eyes wet from the constant tears and staring.

Some minutes later there's a door creaks open, but it only barely registers in John's mind. He doesn't even lift his head to see who came into the room, his own despair and exhaustion clouding his judgement.

"Dr. Watson?" An unfamiliar voice calls out and John slowly looks to the door. A graying doctor, early 40's, stands in the doorjamb, his white coat clean and crisp while his eyes seem to be a muddy brown.

John jumps to his feet when he's brain finally catches up. "How is he?" He skips formalities and his mind is out of control. He's already diving into the man's mind, breaking one of his rules without hesitation. Instantly, he's hit with an image of himself. Haggard with dried blood soaked all over him. John tries to ignore the picture and tries to find news of Sherlock. 

 Why isn't this doctor think about his patient? Why is he thinking about something else?

"Are you family?" The doctor says and John senses the suspicion mentally. Anger and frustration surge through him and he wants to scream at the man until his voice is hoarse.

"You know my name and you know exactly who I am." John says, clamping down on his anger. All evidence of vulnerability and shock fade, left standing is one Captain Doctor John Watson, ex-army doctor. "Now, how is he?"

The doctor cows and flinches accordingly while clearing his throat.

"Yes, well." The man starts weakly before clearing his throat again. "It was a through and through but it missed all the important stuff. We were mostly worried about the blood loss and the subsequent cardica arrest. But we gave him blood transfusions and now his vitals are looking good."

John sighs and sways and the relief crashes with the force of a hurricane, but continues listening.

"For now, he's still unconscious and it'll be touch and go for a while but we are hopeful." The doctor smiles reassuringly but the army doctor sees flashes of Sherlock's motionless body lying on a gurney. 

"When can I see him?" John asks shaking. The tidbits of the doctor's memories breaking his heart bit by bit. He breaks the mental connection suddenly, he can't see any more. Stray tears streak down his face and he sees the other doctor's face soften with sympathetic eyes.

"He's on some pretty heavy antibiotics and pain medication so while he's unconscious we have him in the Critical Care Unit. I would recommend coming back tomorrow, when he's settled." The doctor says confidently and nods as if to back himself up.

There is literally no way in hell that John is waiting until tomorrow.

"Thank you doctor," John says instead and offers a handshake. In the split second their hands connect, John digs in and he finds, besides the man's affiar with an intern, Sherlock's room number.

He prepares himself for the break and their hands disconnect. The doctor leaves the room and John waits five minutes before following. He spent Uni in this hospital, he  _knows_ this hospital and that means he knows the ins and outs, like how to get to the CCU without anyone knowing he's there. 

* * *

After a long and ninja-like route, John finally comes across Sherlock's room.

He impulsively scans the darken hallway for nurses. Seeing none, he opens up his connection to search for nearby minds. There's no one around so he slowly opens the door and enters the room, trying to make as little noise as possible.

As soon as he sees the man lying on the bed John's self-control flies out the window and he scuttles to Sherlock's beside.

The younger man is gaunt and the exhaustion is clear on his sleeping face, but his body is still and slack, almost peaceful. Unsurprisingly, there are a bunch of wires and tubes hooked into him and John does a once over to see the medicines they have him on.

After his analysis, including checking Sherlock's vitals for himself, he lets out a breath of relief and drags a nearby chair over.

When he finally sits, John lets the tension in his shoulders and neck fade away. He slumps in the chair but doesn't look away from the sleeping detective.

Its honestly the most sleep Sherlock's had in a week.

He leans foward a bit and hesitantly reaches out to touch. His hand hovers undecidedly over the detective's skin. John doesn't know what to expect when he makes the connection. Is it going to be full of color like when the man is sleeping? Or is it going to cold and non-existant, like the last time he had touched the man?

His hand stays there for a few more seconds while his mind tries to make a decision. After a bit longer, he gets sick of wondering and takes Sherlock's hand gently.

 The connection opens immediately, lilac and honey accompanying it along with colors and John sighs in alleviation.

Red, crimson branches seem to be the prominant color this time, taking over Sherlock's unconsciousness with ease, pushing itself into hidden corners of the genius's mind. 

When John finally realizes the red is symbolic for blood, he about throws up. He tries to look underneath the red for the memory responsible but he finds there isn't just one memory. There are dozens, mushing and blending together while they play rapidly throughout the link and John can't seem to slow them down long enough to comprehend. But he does sense the fear, the utter terror and pain the detective feels and that puts John on edge.

So on edge, that he does something about. He pushes soothing warmth and thoughts of safety into the bond. He scoots foward a bit more and conveys comforting thoughts, feelings, and sentiment, hoping the genius will calm and rest peacefully.

To tell the truth, he's not really sure if it'll work. This aspect of his Gift is still a little new to him.

He's never once, in his entire life, thought he would be able to transfer any part of his ability to another person, let alone willingly.

After a while, John notices the detective's colors change and his mind calms while the memories flash slower. He watches some of the new images for a while and he lets his head lower until its laying unobtrusively next to their joining hands. He closes his eyes as the day catches up to him, but for the moment he revels in the comfort that Sherlock is alive, in front of him, and not going anywhere.

The warmth of lilac and honey eventually lull him to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock knows he isn't awake, or in a different level of unconsciousness than usual. He can't feels his physical body but somehow he's aware of his surroundings. He momentarily panics and tries to move but then he feels calm. A sudden wave of warmth, safety, comfort, love, tenderness with a base line of anxiety filter through his mind causing him to relax. He lets them flow through him as he tries to find purchase on his own memories.

He knows John's behind these emotions but he can't seem to remember how he knows this. For a second, he panics, his thoughts screaming in alarm. What if he can't control his memories any more. Sherlock forces himself deeper before realizing that he has the memories, he just can't control them, let alone bring them to the surface.

He tries to keep himself calm, with the help of John and falls into a deeper unconsciousness. 

* * *

John's shoulder and neck ache with tension and stiffness but he doesn't move. His head still lays on Sherlock's hospital bed, inches from their connecting hands. He gives them a squeeze, more to reassure himself.

A wave of panic flashes through John causing him to snap his head up and look directly into the detective's face, which remiains slack and painless. 

Through the tactile connection, John can feel Sherlock calm himself down but he sends comforting feelings anyways, not able to forgo his own anxiety.

The genius's emotions remain calm and John stands up and his legs protests but he ignores it and keeps their hands together. He shuffles closer to the bed and leans over the wounded man, running a hand through the untameable, darks curls that rest against Sherlock's forehead.

There doesn't seem to be any memories in the surfaces of the younger man's mind which puzzles John. He focuses and is able to still sense the lilac and honey and the panic Sherlock is feeling but no images.

Suddenly, Sherlock's connection becomes vibrant with colors and John shakes his head in confused resignation and settles in to wait some more.

* * *

"Okay Sherlock. Now it's time to wake up." John whispers into the detective ear.

The night had passed uneventfully. He had fallen asleep around midnight only to be woken up by one of Sherlock's nurses around six in the morning. He had been on his guard immediatly, scowling and preparing a speech. But then she had smiled and said he had permission to be there and that had been that. 

Now, as it nears eight in the morning John find himself succumming to boredom. _"I need to stop being around Sherlock."_ John thinks to himself.

He wants to talk to Sherlock, he wants to see the icy gray eyes of the detective and John surprises himself when he realizes that he misses the genius's enormus ego.

John strokes the top of Sherlock's hand, looking in the detective's thoughts. He is in a lighter level of wakefulness at the moment, feelings and the occasion of image flash though the detective's mind. The telepath has been tempted to just dive into Sherlock's thoughts and force him out of his slumber, but John resists the urge for fear of causing more damage.

A pang of longing hits John straight in his chest, almost falling backward because of the sudden burst of emotion coming from the detective.

"Sherlock. Wake UP!" John practically screams and Sherlock's eyes flutter while his thoughts become more alert.

_"John."_

_  
_It's weak but John picks up on it. "Yes, that's right Sherlock. Open those eyes." He soothes as images fuzz in and out of the connection.

 _"John."_ Sherlock lets out a puff of air and within a minute, the detective's eyes are fluttering more solidily. John leans over the genius's body, his free hand cupping the younger man's face.

They flutter open and John finds icy gray orbs staring back at him, hazy from confusion and sleep. , slightly unfocused and blurred.

"Sherlock." John lets out the breath he had known he'd been holding.

"John." His voice is raspy from disuse but John enjoys the deep baritone. He embraces the detective gingerly, not willing to let go...ever.


	12. Meddling Mycroft

_"Bored."_

John's mug nearly falls from his grip. Fumbling at the last minute, he manages to gain control but he still sends a glare in the direction of the sitting room to where a certain invalided detective is laying.

The telepath sighs, he knows he should be use to things like this now. Sherlock, more often than not, likes to announce his boredom, physically, verbally, and John's favorite, mentally. He just wishes his mugs wouldn't have to be the causalities of such outbursts.

_"Bored!"_

John sighs, again, but opts to ignore the detective.

Instead, he eats his toast silently at the kitchen table in the one foot of free space. He takes a quiet sip of his tea while his hands form a tight grip on the mug, his eyes never leaving the newspaper laying in front of him. 

He vaguely hears Sherlock's dressing gown rustle against the couch he's supposedly 'resting' on.

The thought causes John to let out an amused huff.

Sherlock doesn't do 'rest'. He's either partaking in dangerous chases throughout London, engaging in numerous insults to Anderson and/or Donovan, or he's relaying flippant and often unwanted deductions to the strangers he meets.

He does not do resting.

There is no sitting at home, bed ridden, with his arm in a sling and daily doses of pain medication. He doesn't do immobilizing limbs and vacant, yet hopeful stares at his beloved violin.

 _"_ _Bored! Bored! Bored!"  
_

But, out of all the things he doesn't do, boredom seems to be something that he has down pat, and John spends a moment being eternally grateful that Lestrade's bringing over cold cases later on in the day.

John can't believe it's only been three days since they've returned from the hospital.

Three, very long and very loud (at least for John) days. Which is saying something, considering Sherlock had slept (read: passed out from exhaustion) most of the first day home. John let him sleep, god knows the genius needs all the sleep he can get and honestly, John had been happy to sleep right next to him. He had spent the first day with his arms wrapped protectively around the lean man, watching and waiting for the colors and nightmares.  When too much red or anger would become prevalent, John would practice controlling the dreams and emotions.

More often than not, Sherlock's dreams featured too much read and John would have to intervene, pushing happy, swirling yellows and blues into the detective's subconscious. And for the most part it had worked. The doctor had been able to prevent the genius from straying too much into traumatic nightmares and when Sherlock had finally woken up, he'd been well rested and calm. 

_"Bored."_

The calm, obviously, hadn't lasted for very long.

John pulls himself out of the memories with a start, jostling his mug, causing it to spill over the edges of his cup and onto his plate. He looks down in dismay, grimacing at the now soggy bread and sighs. Standing, he moves over the sink and gives it a wash.

_"Are you ignoring me John?"_

The doctor resist the urge to snigger at the petulant tone of the detective. He continues to wash the rest of his dish off and refill his tea. All the while, opening up the connection between them to push warm thoughts and feelings to 'entertain' the detective.

He's happy to say it's a technique he had mastered only yesterday.

After Sherlock had woken up from his day of sleep, it hadn't taken very long for him to grow bored. John, being the genius telepath he is, had decided to prolong the inevitable and let Sherlock experiment with his telepathy. The genius had instantly and gleefully agreed.

They had spent most of the second day working on enhancing on John's ability to influence emotions and feelings into other people.

Together, they started off with mastering the technique through touch, which John had been able to perfect almost right away. He could make Sherlock feel safe, warm, calm, happy, euphoric, and excited, and those had been simple enough.

If John had revealed in the smile that broke across Sherlock's face, well, no one would be the wiser.

Then, Sherlock had insisted they practice the more treacherous emotions to which John had objected too but in the end the younger man convinced him. In the end, John had been able to push anger, frustration, jealously, sadness, grief, disappointment, fear, and confusion through the connection, albeit rather reluctantly.

Then they had moved on to non-tactile transference, which proved to be a bit more difficult for John to master. For the first few times, John accomplished nothing, he had to really focus on Sherlock, inhale the lilac and honey combination until it consumes him. After concentrating for awhile, he had been able to transfer happiness through the link.

After that, the rest of the day had become a blur to John. Sherlock made him increase the vibrancy of the emotions by testing on strangers walking along Baker Street. John, of course, had been reluctant at first, but one look at the genius's smile, the telepath gave in.

He remembers scanning the street and latching onto a women. She had been walking hurriedly down the street, the light, fake fur coat wrapped tightly around her shoulders had been a direct contrast to her dark skin and John could have sworn he could hear the click-clack of her sleek, black heels against the pavement. Without procrastinating any longer, he had opened a link and situated himself into her mind.

There had been swirling thoughts about articles and words, and something about deadlines, and thoughts about her sister, all rambling around at high speed. He got lost in her surface thoughts for a while before deciding to go deeper. Eventually, he had started to search for her underlying senses.

The rose eluded him for a bit before he had stumbled across and immediately attached to it. The link had vibrated with potency and it didn't take long for the second scent, coffee, to mingle pleasantly with the rose. They blended together in a surprising concoction that had John smiling slightly. Then, he settled into her mind, closing his eyes and centering himself.  He let the senses flow through him and immediately planted calm feelings.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed that the stranger had slowed down significantly and there had been a big smile stretching across her face. As soon as the stranger had turned the corner out of sight, John had turned to face the detective and together they shared a happy smile.

There's something righteous and human about having the ability to control someone else's happiness and John, himself couldn't help but feel euphoric and useful.

Yet, at the same time, it scares the living piss out of him. He's had just found out that he possesses the power to make someone feel. At the time, he had decided to push those thoughts for another day, and spent the rest of the afternoon staring out of  221B Baker Street's window, making other people around him feel happy.

The sun had eventually started to set and John's face had been practically smashed up against the glass like a child at a candy store until Sherlock had laughed and pulled the doctor away to snuggle on the sofa. They spent the rest of the night watching crap telly while John had occasionally sent blissful feelings into Sherlock.

* * *

_"John!"_

John pulls out of the memories of the last two days once again and sighs. While he had been thinking his tea had gone cool so he dumps the cold liquid into the sink and pushes more thoughts of calm and serenity into the detective, hoping it will calm the man down, maybe distract him a bit.

"That's not fair." John hears Sherlock's quiet words and he chuckles to himself before walking into the sitting room and settles into his chair, grabbing for his computer in one swift motion.

_"Bored."_

John pays him no mind and cracks the lid open and decides to update his blog. The pair sit in a suspicious silence for awhile, but the doctor decides not to question it.

The spend about an hour like this, the clicking of John's keyboard and the occasional rustling of Sherlock's dressing gown are the only sounds that echo throughout the room.

Eventually, Sherlock decides to break the silence.

"I can't help but wondering," Sherlock starts and John can hear the younger man sit up on the couch.

"Well, there's a first." He says sarcastically and turns his head just in time to see the glare the detective sends his way. John chuckles a bit but looks back to his screen.

"How did that man die?" Sherlock asks curiously but John doesn't react to the question. Other than a short, tense pause of his typing, John doesn't react and one could say maybe he hadn't even heard Sherlock's words. 

Which is obviously untrue. John had heard them loud and clear and he chooses not to react. He doesn't really think there's anything to react too. Lestrade had asked the same question earlier in the week, albeit a bit differently and less suspicious than Sherlock's tone.

He had told the truth, that he didn't know. One minute they'd been fighting and struggling, with John pinned down and a gun pointed at Sherlock, and the next the man was dead, lying next to the doctor. John had suggested aneurism or heart attack and the DI had believed him. The truth would have been a more farfetched explanation, John's a telepath who somehow managed to dig into another man's mind and kill him. 

Yeah, John is going to stick with 'I don't know' for now.

_"John."_

The doctor stops typing and looks at Sherlock. "I don't know." He says honestly and in the back of his mind, he wonders if he should feel more remorse for killing the man. Maybe, he should feel apprehension at how strong his ability seems to be, or maybe fear at how he did it. He doesn't feel any of those things, at least not as overwhelming as the sheer relief that stems from the fact that Sherlock is alive, that they are both alive and able to fight another day.

"You killed a man with your gift." Sherlock states confidently and a brief flicker of fear? maybe concern flashes across Sherlock's face and John looks away.

"You're scared of me." He says, weariness and sadness weighing down his tone.What does it say about John that he knew this day would come? The day that Sherlock realizes just how dangerous being around a telepath really is.

The doctor stares at his blurring screen and lets himself have a short pity party before he figures out just what this all means for them.  

"No." Sherlock says forcefully, breaking John out of his morose thoughts.

"What?" John raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks to the detective once again.

"'I'm not scared of you." Sherlock rolls his eyes and bring his injured arm closer to his chest. "You are listed at three hundred and forty-four on my list of scary things."

John gapes. "Are you saying you not only have a list of scary things but there are over three hundred and forty-four things on it and I'm at the bottom?" He can't tell if the detective is joking or not. "Come on, I just killed a man with my brain. That has to be at least scarier than what, family dinners?"

_"You say that because you haven't ever been to one of my family dinners."_

Before John can even comment on that little tidbit that came through the link Sherlock says, in an imitation of the telepath's voice, "He wasn't a very nice man."

And for some reason, it makes John feel better.  The uncertainty and paranoia that surrounded the last couple of minutes seems to dissipate and John smiles sheepishly.

"Please, I don't sound like that." He says and puts his laptop to the side and moves to the sofa. He plants himself carefully next to the healing Sherlock and leans into him. The detective just smiles back and John can feel the the thick stress from the conversation leave his body and then the rest of the flat.

The remain silent for a while until, _"I've got a whole list of experiments we can try."_

"Considering that we were just talking about my brain and the ability to kill someone, excuse me if I refuse your experiments." John states moving away from the lean man in mock appall..

 _"But John..."_ Sherlock whines, his thoughts pushed out in a huff which in turn, causes the doctor to laugh.

* * *

 

"You promise me that you'll stay here." John says for the tenth time as he walks nervously through the sitting room and into the kitchen. His body is tense and wary, his hair in disarray from running his hand through it in apprehension.

 _"I promise to stay under your ridiculous house arrest while you do frivolous shopping."_   There's a twinge of irritation and annoyance echoing throughout the connection that has John huffing. 

"It's not frivolous," He says edgily. "You need to eat. I need to eat. It's a necessity." He gathers up his keys and wallet from the kitchen and walks back to the sitting room to find the dectective staring idly at the ceiling.

John's mind is as disheveled as his appearance. Apprehension and worry almost make him just stay home and seriously contemplates putting off groceries for one more day.

He shakes his head. No, they've been out of milk for two days and John can't handle one more cup of tea without milk. He has to go. He reasons it should be fine. He's checked and rechecked the windows of both bedrooms to make sure they are locked and even gone down to Mrs. Hudson's back door to make sure its lock. 

John wraps a scarf around his neck and pulls his coat on slowly. When he's all dressed, he continues to just stand in the middle of the sitting room briefly pondering his separation anxiety.

 _"John. Just go."_ Sherlock's thoughts whine. _"I'll be fine."_

"Okay Okay." John says and has to mentally push himself down the stairs and out the door, making sure to lock the new bolt they had put in. He sighs, turns, and walks away from 221 Baker Street, dread and worry accompany him the entire way.

* * *

Tescos is, thankfully, empty when John enters the shop. He rushes through the shopping, grabbing milk and other necessities. As he steps up the queue line he glances at his watch, the trip's only taken about twenty minutes so far. 

On his way out the door of the mart he listens to the open connection to Sherlock. The detective, for the most part, is silent but John lets the comfort of lilac and honey surround him, making the separation a bit easier. 

It only takes a few minutes, in true Sherlock Holmes fashion, for the silence to break.

 _"Bored."_   

John retorts with sending his own feelings back. The closer and closer he gets to Baker Street the more euphoric feelings he pushes into the link. Sherlock remains silent, but John knows the detective is enthralled. 

He's a couple of blocks away when he hears a familiar purring engine. 

_"Does Mycroft own a phone?"_ John thinks to himself. Maybe if he doesn't see it or acknowledge it, the politician will go away. 

No such luck. The engine becomes louder until its right next to John, making pace with his movements.

Out of annoyance, John pushes irritation through the link and then proceeds to put the detective onto his mental back burner, thus allowing his mind to scan for nearby minds. Unfortunately, due to his dealings with Mycroft, the doctor has been forced to recognise Anthea's senses, not that they're unpleasant or anything, its just that John hates breaking his rules (even if he tends to break them more and more around Sherlock).

John reluctantly latches on to the vanilla and oranges that radiate from the PA. It always pays to double check who's stalking him, especially with Moriarty about. 

The whir of a window breaks the sudden tight silence of the street and John tenses.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson." Anthea's voice drifts to the doctor's ears. He debates, irrationally and with a rather goofy determination, about running. Not that he ever really fancies a chat with Mycroft Holmes, but today in particular he's itching to get back to the flat. It's been closer to forty minutes now that he's been away and it's making him antsy.

That, and he has milk.

"John." She says again, this time with more annoyance than command.

Fate, it seems, prefers John to be intercepted by eager politicians and their blackberry wielding assistants.

With a heavy sigh, John turns and gets into the black sedan rather clumsily and places his bag by his feet.

The car takes off in the opposite direction while Anthea sits in front of him, typing furiously on her mobile as usual.

John doesn't even bother asking because he knows he won't get an answer. Instead, he stares out the window and wraps lilac and honey around him.  

For a few minutes, it seems that they're going in circles, zigzagging across London, but he figures they're going on a specific route known only to them. 

They move farther from Baker Street and central London, and the white noise finds him easily, pulsating the further they get out of range. Even though the detective and telepath have been practicing, their range isn't that long. In all honesty, this is probably the farthest he's been away from Sherlock since they've met.

 _"I really need to get out more."_ John thinks to himself.

They sit in physical silence for twenty minutes, while John's white noise steadily grows in volume.

 _"Dammit Mycroft."_ John resist a chuckle at Sherlock's bitter tone. Instead, he pulls out his mobile, nonchalantly.

_Stay put, you are healing. It won't take long. -JW_

_"It's terribly inconvenient."_ John withstands the snort that threatens to escape his mouth.

_You're telling me, I have milk. - JW_

The car slows and turns onto a side road with a gate that's starting to open. Once beyond the gate, the paved road widens and is surrounded by rows of trees and hedges on both sides. Half a minute later, the trees break and the car pulls up to an unfamiliar house. It's a large, pristine white manor that seems at least a hundred years old.  

John has know idea where they are and that this big of a house existed so close to London. Not to mention, this house is vastly different from the one that hosted Mycroft's party all those months ago.

Is Mycroft seriously pretentious enough to have two houses?

 _"Of course he is."_ John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He knows that being a Holmes and dramatic are synonymous but he finds this ridiculous. 

_Mycroft doesn't have two houses does he? - JW_

_"What? Why would he take you there?"_ Apparently, Sherlock knows of Mycroft's second house. Good, he knows where John is, at least someone does.

There is a slight panic to the detective's voice but the doctor chalks it up to the intense sibling rivalry the two of them have going on.

The car finally stops in front of the manor, and there are beautiful, white arches that cover the front doors.

Wanting to get this all over with, John unbuckles his belt and opens the door, leaving his bags in the backseat, hoping this won't take too long. 

John walks up to the main door without being told to and it opens automatically for him. With another eye roll he enters, not even bothering to hide his blatant admiration of the Great Hall.

The hall is long and wide, ornate columns hold up a balcony on the second floor that seems to mirror the first. Several rooms off shoot the hall, each sealed with antique wooden doors. And above all of this, the hall is lines with three chandeliers, hang languidly from the ceiling and basking the hall with warm luminescence.

"Yeah. This screams Mycroft all over." John thinks to himself.


	13. Meddling Mycroft Part 2

As much as John finds Mycroft to be a annoying, meddling bastard, the man has a damn fine house, mansion, whatever. 

Even if it seems a bit gaudy and the ceilings are painted like the bloody Sistine Chapel.

Yet, he finds himself staring at the ceiling and admiring the fancy mural, all the while humming a bit at the theatrically of it all.

Someone clearing their throat gathers John's attention and he forces his gaze downward. 

Mycroft stands in front of him, dressed in an immaculate three piece suit of his.

John finds himself disappointed when the man seems to lack his usual umbrella. 

"Hello John." Mycroft says pleasantly. "Welcome."  The politician waves his hands and then there are hands pulling John's jacket from his body and ushering him further down the hall. When his jacket finally comes off, the doctor hurries to catch up with Mycroft, all the while gaping shamelessly at the enormous hall and its ridiculous decorations. 

Mycroft veers left towards a set of dark, ornamented wooden doors. Without speaking, he pushes the doors open, both hands on each side and it groans, the sound echoing through the hall.

John has to physically hold back the scoff at the sheer flamboyancy of the situation. 

He follows the elder Holmes into the large room, regardless, and looks around at the very posh library.

It's lit synthetically, since there doesn't seem to be one window in the entire room, unlike the floor-to-ceiling windows in his other home. Also, unlike the other mansion, the room lacks a fireplace. Instead, shelves of books stretch from the floor to the ceiling, using up every available wall space the room has to offer. A couple of strides in sit two luscious chairs that are a deep burgundy color. In front of them is a long brown couch that looks all kinds of comfortable. Between the chairs and the couch lays a delicate and expensive looking glass coffee table.

Mycroft wordlessly moves further into the room and sits down in the chair closest the door, his back facing the door. John doesn't immediately follow, he finds himself continuing to gape at the pretentious library.

"Do have a seat John." Mycroft finally says and John quickly looks down to see the elder Holmes pointing to the sofa and he crosses the room to sit.

"What am I doing here Mycroft?" John asks as he sits and the older man's features shift from boring to intrigued causing the doctor to tense.

He finds himself restless, his instincts yelling at him that something's different, wrong. This meeting, or whatever it is, seems too formal and yet too personal at the same time and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in alarm. 

 _"I don't want you there."_ The thought comes through after a while of silence and John catalogs it but chooses to focus on his current predicament.

Mycroft seems to regard the doctor for a minute, looking him up and down, analyzing him and John shifts uncomfortably under the gaze but remains confusedly silent.

"How does it work?" The politician asks eventually with an aura of nonchalance. He leans back and crosses his legs and relaxing.  Once again, John's disappointed that Mycroft doesn't have his umbrella, it would have tipped this outrageous display of intimidation into ridiculous.

"What?" John ungracefully blurts, trying to keep his face blank and as neutral as possible.

Mycroft huffs a bit and gives a little tut. "Don't be purposefully obtuse Dr. Watson. You know what I'm talking about."

_"John."_

Sherlock's connection reeks of the same panic that John's feeling internally.

Trying to settle his alarm, he searches for the chocolate and caramel senses associated with Mycroft opens up a tentative connection. The politician's mind is different and fast, it always is. Images and thoughts pass by in a blur, too fast to read or comprehend. They would appear and disappear just as fast and in between one thought the next, there is only darkness. It's why John doesn't like being in the man's mind, he can't slow it down enough to figure out what Mycroft is thinking and there's a general feeling of coldness that rubs him the wrong way. All in all, he learns nothing.

"I know what you are," Mycroft states confidently, his eyes scrutinizing John intensely.

"Mycroft. What on Earth are you talking about?" John says incredulously. "I don't know what's going on here, but-"

"Telepathy." The elder Holmes interrupts, leaning forward a bit to catch John's attention.

John molds his face to show exasperation and there's a shocked silence echoing throughout the room. 

_"Get out."_

"Right." John says, clapping his hands together. "You're a bit loony." He stands up and heeds Sherlock's advice, making his way to the door. If he can just get outside, he might have a chance.

"Dr. Watson, I'll have you know that out side that door are at least six of my men waiting to drag you right back in here." The politician says just as John's hand closes around the knob, and he hesitates. He could take his chances with Mycroft's men but then the man starts talking.

"I hypothesised for a while, I knew something was different since the beginning." Mycroft remarks and John leans his head against he door heavily. "To your credit, you hid very well, but there were key points that gave you away in the end."

John doesn't want to know. He wants to leave. He'll take his chances with the six armed men on the other side of the door.

"Don't even think about it Dr. Watson." Mycroft says and all previous pleasantries in this voice are gone. A hard, cold tone emits from the other man causing John to shiver. He turns his head angrily and looks over to where he's sitting.

Mycroft, the confident bastard, hasn't even moved. He's still relaxed in his chair and John wants to walk around and punch the git in the face.

"Sit. Down." Mycroft demands and John, out of spite and stubbornness, stays exactly where he is.

_"John. Get out."_

Mycroft sighs and then there's a noise on the other side of the door causing him to turn his head and look. The noise gets louder and John finds himself backing away slowly. It burst open suddenly and a couple of black-clad men swarm in. There are hands everywhere and John struggles instinctively. He kicks, punches and bites but nothing helps. Eventually they manhandle him further into the room until he's thrown onto the sofa roughly. 

Miraculously, he's not any worse for wear and only his pride is hurt. He thinks about rushing the men out of sheer stupidity but they are already retreating, the last one out closing the enormous doors behind him.

"Where were we?" Mycroft says with disappointment but John sends him a seething glare and opens up the connection to probe the older man's thoughts.

 "Ah yes, we were talking about how you had hidden well but but I finally caught on." Mycroft says eventually and John's face remains the same. If the politician thinks he's going to be a willing participant in this conversation, the man is sorely mistaken.

True to any Holmes, Mycroft decides to ignore John's lack of participation.

"I was originally suspicious when I first met you we chatted. I felt an intrusion in my head, like nothing i've ever experienced before. Sort of like right at this moment." Mycroft states looking directly at John pointedly.

Startled, John drops the connection immediately and the politician smiles sickly. "The intrusion only seemed to happen around you. That was my first clue."

John shifts a bit, his back tense against the couch.

"Then it became apparent that my little brother had become utterly fascinated by you, enough to keep you around?" As Mycroft finishes the statement, he leans back slowly before adding "Sherlock doesn't waste his time on the uninteresting, John."  

The doctor scowls, a sinking feeling laying heavy in his stomach. This is bad, everything about this is bad. There's no way Mycroft (a.k.a. the British Government) would let someone like him roam around the streets of London.

Although, a small part of John wishes Mycroft would just get on with the death or torture, whichever is coming because the anticipation and anxiety is killing him.  

"Sherlock found you fascinating, found _it_  fascinating and now he had a use for you." Mycroft says with a cruel smirk and John flinches.

"You're wrong." He says, refusing to be baited by this man.

"Am I?" The politician says with amusement and his eyes scanning John but the doctor refuses to answer back

Mycroft has no idea how Sherlock feels about him. John has proof, he constantly senses the love, adoration and sometimes fond annoyance that comes through the connection, hell, even now the link has a stream of love and happiness (intermixed with panic) coming through.

The older Holmes narrows his eyes before continuing. "Regardless, all of the previous examples had, unfortunately, been circumstantial to a certain degree," John scoffs but Mycroft carries on. "It wasn't until my dear brother was shot that I realized what you are." John shifts uncomfortably and breaks eye contact with Mycroft briefly. Whenever the subject of Sherlock getting shot is brought up, John can't help but become extremely uncomfortable.

The shift in John's behavior doesn't escape Mycroft's notice. "You knew he had gone into cardiac arrest, you knew before the paramedics did. You were listening to him. You were listening when his heart stopped." With each sentence, the man had started leaning forward intensely, his elbows almost resting on his knees, intrigued. 

John doesn't answer, willing his mind to think of anything except the moment when Sherlock Holmes had died mid-thought. 

 _"John. GET OUT OF THERE NOW!"_  Sherlock suddenly screams into the connection and John tries to keep his face neutral but a small wince flashes across his face due to sheer volume of the detective's thought.

Unfortunately, this doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft.

"You're listening to him right now." The elder genius states excitedly, his face remaining neutral but his eyes glistening with curiosity. Still, John remains silent, and avoids eye contact.

"How far is the range?" Mycroft asks, curiosity dripping from his voice.

"I'm not what you say I am and I would like to leave Mycroft." John says instead of answering and Mycroft's curious expression leaves his face instantly.

"I am not a fool Dr. Watson." The politician says icily. "I know what you are. There is no reason to continue hiding it." 

"Mr. Holmes. Let me leave." John commands frostily, his posture straightening instinctively. 

Mycroft smiles deviously and says, "I have to say, I can see why my brother is intrigue with you. The countless opportunities and possibilities. We are alike in the sense that we both see how much of an assets you really are."

John freezes. An asset? He's not stupid, he can read between the lines. Mycroft isn't going to murder _or_ torture him, the man's going to do something so much worse.

Mycroft's going to use him.

Him and his organization are going to force John to use his gift to intrude into other's peoples' minds.

John would rather have the torture and death. Because _this_ , this is so much worse. This breaks every fundamental rule and moral obligation John believes in.

"No." He says firmly. but Mycroft doesn't blink. 

Mycroft just about to speak when the white noise of London (which has been unobtrusively present in the back of John's mind for the better part of an hour now) suddenly dissipates.

Which means Sherlock is really close.

He tries not to show any indication of change and thanks multiple deities that Mycroft doesn't know anything specific about his gift. The elder Holmes has no idea how important and involved Sherlock actually is and it should stay the way.

_"John."_

Sherlock has be within five miles at the very least and he's is coming for John. Happiness and adoration bubble up inside him because _Sherlock's coming for him._ But then, infectious guilt stops on the elation. He doesn't want the detective to be involved, to get hurt. For all the bad things Mycroft is, he's also powerful. He's going to use John's ability regardless of the ethical or moral ambiguity and John's probably not going to be leaving this house.

_"John."_

The doctor forgets himself and sighs with stress and heavy anxiety, his body instinctively tensing.

Mycroft eyes narrow (again) and stiffens.

In the blink of an eye, Mycroft stands and dashes out of the library door. Before John has time to realize the politician has moved, the door is shut and the lock clicks, leaving him alone. He rises immediately, insides full of panic but he manages to keep a calm and collected facade for the most part.

"MYCROFT!" John yells, running to the door. "You can't just leave me here." He punches the wood, bitterly latching on to Mycroft's connection. He sends coldness, sadness, grief and despair into the politician's mind, and John can feel Mycroft stumble because of the emotions.

John laughs coldly at his kidnapper's pain before remembering himself. He pulls out of the connection abruptly, gasps as his head twinges with pain slightly before it disappears.

He just caused fake emotional turmoil onto another person, and he had _enjoyed_ it. 

One of his hands flies to his mouth and he berates himself on the loss of control. John's furious, angry with himself and mad at the situation.

John looks at the door but doesn't connect with Mycroft again. He feels frustrated and guilty and in his state he begins banging his fist against the door. He calls to be let out and knocks his knuckles against the wood, breaking his skin and the blood seeps down his hand to fall in steady drips on the floor. He doesn't stop, even when it starts to hurt. He wants out, and he will bang on the door until someone lets him out.

 _"John."_   A few more mintues of pounding later and the white noise fizzles out, which means Sherlock is here and John feels a vague sense of anger coming through the link.

 _If that idiot has popped his stitches, I'm going to be so mad._ John thinks to himself and the absurdity of the thought causes him to stop pounding and sigh in resignation.

Sherlock's just going to get himself in trouble. He leans his head against the bloodied door. His hand hurts something fierce and his throat feels scratchy and hoarse from yelling.  He pushes away from the door, giving up, and moves to the sofa.

As soon as he sits he hears commotion in the hallway. Muffled yelling and running footsteps come from just beyond the door.

Part of him wants to just sit and let whatever happens, happen. But the other part, the soldier part has him standing up and walking behind the couch, using the sofa as a barrier in case something or someone comes through that door. 

Nothing happens for a few seconds and then the voices get louder and the footsteps grow in number, all the while John braces himself.

Without warning, the door bursts open with an explosion of noise. Small wooden bits going flying in every direction and John brings his hands up instinctively. After the dust settles, his hands go back to his sides, clenching (painfully) and ready for a fight.

A flash of dark curls has him stopping short.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's soft face appears just beyond the broken door and John relaxes. The detective stands there, his clothes in disarray but his sling is steady and his face set with determination.

John can still see the underlying pain and exhaustion that Sherlock isn't showing.

He crosses the room in seconds, and wraps his good arm around John's waist and the doctor finds himself hugging back carefully, mindful of detective's recovering injuries.

_"Are you okay?"_

John nods into Sherlock's collarbone just as Mycroft enters the room. He watches over Sherlock's shoulder as the politician enters the room, stepping around the cleaved door without a second glance. 

Miliseconds after, five armed men enter as well, fanning out behind the politician with their barrels pointed at John. The ex-army doctor stiffens in anticipation. 

Sherlock, feeling John's tenseness, turns and puts his body in front of the doctor, successfully shielding him. John scoffs and pushes the lean man gently so they stand side by side. The genius sends a tight smile towards John before addressing his brother.

"Mycroft." Sherlock says acidly, his good arm snaking around John's waist again. "What are you doing?"

John speculates how far Mycroft will take this. Is Mycroft going to kill him now? Now that Mycroft knows what John is capable of? Would he risk Sherlock getting hurt? Would Sherlock get punished for being here? Worse, would they hurt the detective?

There are too many possibilities and John finds himself surveying the situation and coming to a conclusion. It's tense and quiet, Mycroft internally fuming yet curious and John has no delusions of how far Mycroft can and will take this. He makes a promise to himself, right then and there.

No matter what happens, Sherlock has to get out of here unharmed.

During this time, the Holmes brothers have started to bicker heatedly while John's attention floats to the consciousness' of the armed guns. He's surprised that he's not more afraid of these men. Instead, he feels a strange sense of calm. 

He thinks, quietly and quickly of an idea to defuse the intense situation.

Suddenly something risky and dangerous comes to him. There may be no other choice. He's got to try.

John brings his attention to the bond between Sherlock and himself. He lets the calming honey and lilac duo envelop him before breaking it to concentrate on the threat at hand.  Bringing his attention back to Sherlock's bond, he whiffs one last calm honey/lilac duo before breaking the connection to focus on the threat at hand. 

Before he can let his morality and ethical side tell him no, he opens links with Mycroft's men one at a time. One by one, he sends confusion and deep calming thoughts into the gunmen. He watches as each face twists with perplexity as their stances shift restlessly. His eyes flicker briefly to Mycroft, who seems to be getting angrier, before connecting all five men at once.

He's never done with before and he'll probably reap the consequences later but he chooses to push on. With one powerful push, he sends calm into all the men, causing the men's faces to relax and fall into a sleep. Gun clatter against the tile as their owners crumple into heaps upon the ground.

Two of them are even snoring.

With the noise of the guns and sleeping men, Mycroft's head whips around, he face showing a slight hint of shock.

John doesn't get to watch for long because as soon as the last man hits the ground, his eyes roll into the back of his head as his legs give out, plummeting towards the floor. He can feel a very tight grip around his waist, barely keeping John standing.

_"John."_

Pain. There's pain bouncing around in his head and he winces at Sherlock's thought. He fights against the nausea and headache and knows instantly that he took on too much. He thinks it might be worth it when he finally opens his eyes to see more of Mycroft's reaction.

Mycroft's face has gone from slight bafflement to full blown shock. He seems to be speechless, staring at the sleeping men, which has John smiling sloppily to himself, despite the pain in his head.

There's another wave of pain and John's hand finds Sherlock's shirt before closing his eyes and physically wobbling.

"John? John? Can you hear me?" Sherlock whispers into his ear but the worry is loud and he can feel his weight being shuffled.

"Sofa." John whispers and it takes all his might to get his feet under him and with the help of Sherlock, shuffle to the couch.

As Sherlock guides him to the sofa, John can hear the shock exclamations coming from Mycroft who still hasn't moved.

"John. You are bleeding." Sherlock remarks, ignoring his brother and gently laying John down on the plush cushions. The doctor chuckles and wipes at his nose.

"S'not a bad one." John states, closing his eyes and tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. John feels a cool hand against his forehead and cloth underneath his nose. The bond is instantaneous. John indulges in the genius's senses. The detective is unusually quiet for a tactile contact. John guess that Sherlock's anger with Mycroft is the cause of the younger man's taciturnity.

John opens his eyes at the silence and sees a concern detective staring back at him. _"Ah."_ John thinks, Sherlock is silent because he doesn't want to hurt John further and most of all, he doesn't want the doctor to know of his consternation and emotional upheaval. _"Too bad I can see right through him."_ John smiles and brings a shaky hand to cup the detective's cheek, John sends feelings of love and tranquility, along with feelings of reassurances and trust, Sherlock closes his eyes, smiling at the positive emotions, the genius leans into John's touch and hums slightly at their intimate embrace.

"Ah." Mycroft states and John is shaken out of his reverie, he mistakenly thought that Sherlock and himself where the only ones in the room, only ones in the world. John immediately breaks all connections with Sherlock, tactile and mental, hoping that he can still get the detective out unharmed. All though, Mycroft's lack of goonies does put the politician at a disadvantage.

However, John has shown the older man the potential of his gifts and John doubts very much that Mycroft will be able to let the telepath leave without hesitation.

"Mycroft this is your fault." Sherlock shouts, his tone dripping venom. John sits up taller on the sofa, his back tense and straight. His nose is still bleeding but the flow is slowly stopping, meanwhile the headache has subsided quickly and the nausea is almost gone.

"Quite the contrary. I'm sure that Dr. Watson is too blame for my men and everything that follows." Mycroft snaps back, his back against a bookcase, standing in front of the two men, Sherlock kneeling beside John and the doctor ready for a fight, a run, or an ambush.

"Everything that follows? What is that suppose to mean? I'm taking John to the back to the flat." Sherlock stands, his fists clenching in anger.

"Be reasonable, brother, you can't expect me to let this freak walk freely." Sherlock's head snaps up and looks directly at Mycroft. His eyes are red with anger and John recognises Sherlock's stance.

World War Three is not worth it over John Watson, so the doctor latches and instantly sends relaxing emotions into Sherlock, not caring when the detective's glare turns towards John and bares into his soul. John involuntarily shudders under the scrutiny but he continues to calm the detective down. John grabs the genius's hand reflectively, enhancing the feelings vibrancy and until Sherlock has to sit down next to John, due to the intensity of the feelings.

John knows he is bending the rules, even though he will argue with himself later on that he is saving billions of lives by derailing this fight. Despite all of it, Sherlock's face softens and he leans against John on the sofa. The doctor notices the detective's droopy eyelids and John stops pushing and lets the feelings linger, he doesn't want Sherlock sleeping, so he smiles at the genius and in return, Sherlock gives a tired sloppy smile back, through his less than intimidating glare of course.

"I hate you." Sherlock states out loud, slightly unusual for the detective to say something out loud but John accepts the statement as an endearment nonetheless.

"I will not let you fight with your brother over silly things." John says simply, throwing an arm around Sherlock's shoulder, cradling the man closer.

"Ah." Mycroft says clearing his throat, once again making his appearance known, because John seems to keep forgetting being wrapped up in the Sherlock-John bubble. John raises his head and meets the politician's eyes. He doesn't dare open the link, instead he tries to read his expressionless face with no avail.

"What do you want with me? Kill me?" John asks, exhaustion creepy on him, his tired of beating around the bush, he's tired of this room and his tired of not knowing his own fate in the hands of Mycroft Holmes.

"No." was Mycrofts simplistic answer. "You are too valuable an asset to exterminate."

Exterminate, was John a bug or something. John sighs nevertheless, knowing that this was coming, an endless service of indentured service with the British Government.

 _"John. Don't."_ John notices the extremely calm, almost to a point of sleep, detective struggling with the idea of talking about John's death so freely.

"If I agree to whatever ridiculous thing you have planned, will you let Sherlock return to the flat unscathed and able to continue his life?" John asks simply, looking at Mycroft, trying to keep disgust and ridicule out of his face while asking this favor.

Sherlock struggles and writhes with these words.

 _"No John. I'm not leaving without you."_ Sherlock pushes away from the doctor to face the man. In this unguarded moment John sees the love and the determination, hell even the stubbornness. He sees it all and it makes John's heart grow strong.

John cups the detective's cheek once again and brings up memories of their times together, the first time they said 'I love you's, their laughs, their first criminal chases. John leans in and kisses Sherlock, their lips meet in a longing and passionate frenzy.

John calms the detective and Sherlock goes limp in his arms, his face slack in his sleep. John lays the detective down gently and brushes the hair out of his face.

He feels disappointment that Sherlock won't be able to test this new part, the ability to cause anyone to sleep. John could have gained amusement out of this, he wouldn't abuse the gift at all, no never.

"You would sacrifice everything for my brother?" Mycroft asks, his tone full of curiosity. He propels himself off of the bookcase with grace and walks over to the two men.

"Of course. Wouldn't you?" John says without looking up, his thoughts focused on the colors in Sherlock's brain.

The three sit in silence, John lost in Sherlock's dreams, part of his keeping the red away like always and the other part wishing Mycroft would get on with it all.

The three engross themselves in the silence of the room for minutes.

"He's too stubborn." Mycroft sighs finally, John's body is so tense from anticipation that he thought he is going to burst.

"What?" John's shocked at the off handed statement, he is confused at the direction Mycroft is steering the conversation.

"He would never stop no matter what." John turns his head to stare at the older man, who has moved to the chair he had previously occupied. John just stares in flummox. "I'm afraid Dr. Watson, you are not worth the endless years of strife and nuisances my brother would provide if I took you away." Mycroft sighs like he just admitted a great defeat.

"Wait. What?" John exasperates. "So after all of this, you are going to let me go." John's whole body is turned toward the politician, one hand still intertwined into the detective's, keeping the tactile contact alive and reassuring.

"I'm going to let you both go." Mycroft clarifies, whipping his mobile out of his pocket and typing a message away furiously. John just stares at the elder Holmes in bewilderment.

The decision seems a bit too easy.

"What's the catch?" John asks, his eyes roaming the politician suspiciously.

"I don't think Sherlock gives you as much credit as he should. Your deductions skills are coming along." was Mycroft's dubious answer. John eyes narrow. "I would simply like to know about your..mutation."

John chuckles sourly, he looks down at the still sleeping detective and weighs his options.

"Fine." There is never any doubt, John would tell Mycroft if that meant Sherlock would be safe, although, John doesn't think that Mycroft would have really hurt his brother, the man's a bastard but he's not evil enough hurt his own family.

Mycroft claps his hands together and stands up. "Good."

Two men enter the room just then, John looks from the men to Sherlock to Mycroft, his eyes wide with panic and his stance ready for fight, although as John stands up abruptly, he can feel the exhaustion taking it's hold, if John has to make another mental connection and knock out the guards, he would be in worst condition than he already is.

"John, relax, they are here to take Sherlock to the car." Mycroft states, putting his hands up in a surrender pose.

John relaxes, but only a little. "I could wake him up."

"Can you?" Mycroft's fascination is back, he turns his full body towards John, who despite it all, looks warily down at Sherlock, unsure of how safe it would actually be.

"No worries, John. Let him rest, and same for yourself. Judging by the bloody nose and your general weakness, you are under-practiced."

"The mind isn't meant for other people to be meddling in it." John states, letting his voice sound as tired as it is.

"Yet, you should no hesitation with knocking out five of my men." Mycroft says conversationally yet surprisingly without accusation or bitterness in his tone.

"They had guns pointed at me, at Sherlock. I didn't have a choice." John remarks firmly as he watches the two men scoop the lanky form up and carry the man out of the library. The sleeping agents bodies have been removed. He follows the men out and knows that Mycroft is following him. "One day I will tell you about my rules, but not today." The doctor adds, mostly to just keep Mycroft's conversation at bay, he doesn't want to be in the manor anymore and he doesn't want a prolonged conversation to become obliged to.

The two men carry Sherlock through the front door and out of the house. Somewhere, a servant comes by and thrust John's coat at him, John doesn't stop his walking and just grabs his coat and scarf and follow Sherlock out of the house.

"John, I feel as thought this conversation is a must." Mycroft starts, his stand slightly uncomfortable and his eyes darting, the expression is new and surprising to John continues his fast paced walking but stares at the politician in anticipation.

"If you hurt my brother in any-" Mycroft starts, striding in front of John stopping the man in his tracks in a demand for attention.

"Mycroft, are you seriously threatening me?" John ask incredulously, not sure if he wants to hit the man or walk away laughing at his ignorance. "I just spent the last hour and a half of my life in chaos. You kidnapped me, kept me here against my will, found out my biggest secret, threatened Sherlock and I at gunpoint, witnessed how powerful my gift can be, witnessed how much I was and will always be willing to sacrifice for your brother. I think it's safe to bet that we will be together for awhile." John says, staring fondly at Sherlock being carried into the car. "Besides I love him."

Mycroft looks at the doctor as if seeing him in a new light. John just walks towards the black sedan with ease, letting the politician beside him focus on the thoughts of a pedestrian.

"Very well," Mycroft admits as John and the older man walk up to the car. The door open, ready for John to climb in next to the sleeping detective. "Oh and John, I hope we aren't parting on bad terms."

"Mycroft, I should hate you, I really have every right to. But since living with your brother, my usual responses are a bit peculiar, so yes, against everything in my being that says you are dangerous and should never be forgiven, I find that my head feeling that we are okay." John replies hastily, anxious to return to the flat. Besides, Mycroft doesn't need to know that even though they are on generous good terms, John is scared shitless of the man, yes best Mycroft not know that.

Right now, they just escaped the most dangerous man on the planet and they will both live to tell about it, although they best not.

Who would believe the story anyway?

* * *


	14. Long Ride Home

In the car, with Sherlock's unconscious body laying across the backseat, the detective's head in the doctor's lap, John strokes the curly dark hair affectionately while he stares out the window. The ex-soldier is far more tense this car ride back to London, compared to the first one of the day.

Any minute, he anticipates the sedan turning around and heading back to the manor, right back into Mycroft's dark and cold clutches. He fears the politician might have changed his mind, deciding to trap John regardless of his feelings for Sherlock, or the deal they made. John shudders at the powerful reach of the politician and sighs with uneasiness.

John's head pounds with a vengeance, and his nose still bleeds slowly and absentmindedly. He knows he pushed his gift too far today. He looks down at the uncharacteristically still genius and can't help but feel that it was worth it. Forcing his gift past, what he thought were concrete limits and reaching new heights, the intense calming of Mycroft's guards, stopping, what John believes would have been, world war three by calming the detective to sleep. It was all worth it, plus the added bonus of Mycroft expressions and thoughts going into a shocked speechlessness, the immaculate politician completely unhinged, worth it, even if it was for a minute. John knows he is lucky, lucky to have gotten out of there, lucky to still be conscious after such a powerful display of his gift. John realises that he could possibly be working at a lower mental capacity the new developments.

Despite the forcefulness of his headache, the realisations of how mentally unsound he could possibly be, and the consequences of his symptoms, John, as soon as he entered the car, connects tactically with Sherlock regardless, actively trying to monitoring his unconscious thoughts. John worries slightly about the after affects of putting someone to sleep, he didn't even know he could do it until today.

John's hand is intertwined with the detective's, keeping all connections open, albeit very timidly, he isn't trying to be brazen with his mental destruction.

In the last ten minutes, Sherlock's thoughts have strayed away from their usual colors when he sleeps and have gone completely blank, like a giant black canvas conveying nothing.

Sherlock Holmes's mind is devoid of anything thought.

The doctor silently sits in the back of the sedan, is face and body neutral, but his mind is pulsating with pain and worry. The genius has fallen into a deep slumber, John is in distress. He fears that his thoughts made the younger man to tranquil, maybe even into a coma.

John shakes the detective calmly at first, calling Sherlock's name softly in the genius's ear. Sherlock's face remains lax and blank. John shakes the man again, this time vigorously, shouting his name, three decibels away from unbearably loud yelling. Still, the detective remains limp and motionlessness.

After a few minutes, John stops trying to rouse the inactive man, the doctor's head erupting and his nose still leaking. He tries to find the warm lilac and honey within in Sherlock's blank mind. Nothing but dark answers John's apprehensive probes on Sherlock's surface.

In the next few minutes, John does two different things, the only things he can think of, and both are not conducive to his mental health.

1\. John, for many reasons, attempts to pull Sherlock out of his light coma.

The genius's lack of thoughts make John afraid for one reason. John didn't even know he could do this with his gift until Mycroft decided to point guns in Sherlock's general direction. What if John can't get the younger man out of this type of coma? What if John did something that even he can't reverse?

Also, a much less, and selfish reason, is John doesn't know how he would get Sherlock into the flat by himself, midday, in the middle of a busy Baker Street. The man may be skinny and lean, but his weight is deceiving. John has troubles getting Sherlock up the stairs on a normal day, when the detective comes back from a case, more often than not, unnecessarily injured and it's up to John to get the detective up the stairs and into bed. John curses and chastising the young man all the way to their bedroom on these days.

Even then though, Sherlock is always conscious enough to help in these cases, at least a little bit, the doctor has never carried the man by himself.

Despite the fact that John is barely working at 50% mentally and his is physically exhausted as well, the telepath eventually decides to bring Sherlock out of his coma, his worries and reason outweighing the doctor's own health...typical.

John closes his eyes and places both of his hands on Sherlock's face, one palm laying over the detective's forehead and the other cupping the lean face. The doctor quickly delves into the detective's mind, bypassing the darkness and the memories, John floats into a space of Sherlock's fascinating brain designated for new experiments to try. The doctor doesn't stay long in this unfamiliar part, the experiments that John briefly sees are technical and even a bit scary.

The ex-soldier can feel the mental strain, he is vaguely aware that his nose is steadily picking up in blood flow. His head throbs loudly and diligently, getting worse the longer that John remains connected so tenaciously.

John catalogs the lack of honey and lilac as he digs deeper and deeper. Maybe, the person has to conscious in order to emit the senses that offer comfort to the doctor. The lack of the familiar senses just put John on edge and make him want to unearth the detective faster.

Finally, John finds Sherlock in his mind palace, a portion of the genius's mind, so far down in his mental standings. The doctor sees the detective perched on his literal mental throne, eyes closed and his pose familiar.

"Dramatic Bastard." John says in Sherlock's brain, causing the detective to open his eyes and stare at John's mental appearance. Sherlock smiles, a large goofy grin, his teeth glistening in the mind palace.

John beckons Sherlock, pulling the detective out of his reverie and the genius obediently follows.

A sudden, sharp and unbearable pain erupts in John's forehead. The doctor is pulled out of Sherlock's mind so fast, that the car around him is spinning unnaturally. The telepath's hands are immediately around his temples, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth yelling out in the pain. The next moment, John is unceremoniously on the floor of the large backseat, his muscles writhing and his body trembling with the agony.

John notices nothing, his mind to focused on pain as he tries to make his thoughts blank and yielding, unsuccessfully. His thoughts scream at him. First; _What is happening? What's going on?_ Then, _Did it work? Is Sherlock out?_

His thoughts are answered by his vague awareness of Sherlock's groggy and slightly slurred, yet encompassing loud screams that echo in the car.

2\. Then John does the second thing that is no where near healthy in his current state, the doctor blacks out. John opens his eyes abruptly just as they roll back and John succumbs to blackness, the dark consuming him. A pair of confused and sleepy gray eyes are the last thing the doctor sees, the eyes sport concern and sadness, very evident in the rarely unmasked face.

* * *

One moment, John is in darkness, his thoughts are slurred and distant, cold even. John doesn't like this place, it's unforgiving and unwelcoming. John panics slightly at the lack of happiness. He fights to get somewhere safe, somewhere he knows is warm.

In the next moment, John opens his eyes. The doctor wakes in silence, his body laying flat, his back to the mattress below him.

 _"At least the cold is gone."_ John thinks to himself. Even through the darkness, John doesn't feel cold, nor does he really feel warm, but neutral is a good starting place.

John tries to place his thoughts, his memories. What happened? Where is he? The room is dark, yes but it smells familiar. The dark curtains are drawn, severing any connections with the moonlight or the nightlife of London, leaving the doctor in a stifling darkness.

John shifts in his bed with a slight twinge of fear, he feels the mattress dip next to him, the occupant adjacent shifting also. John stills, his reflexes singing with warning. The ex-soldier snaps his head to the side, causing his head to throb, John ignores it and tries to find the unknown culprit in the bed with him.

He sees the dark curls first and John instantly relaxes, feeling a bit ashamed and silly for reacting so strongly.

John softens, his face unwinds and his body loosens. He smiles at the detective next to him, the icy gray eyes unwavering with concern and relief, and the lean face smiling tenderly.

Looking at Sherlock causes John's memories to come back in a flash, everything from getting kidnapped originally to escaping Mycroft and the car ride.

 _"Oh. The car ride."_ John remembers passing out. His memories rapidly play in his mind and his face must show it because Sherlock's weak smile turns into a frown and his eyes dart around the room in anxiety.

John considers the detective, the young man's body is curled on his side, a huge gap between the two of them. He arms are against his chest, shaking very faintly, with anger...concern maybe...and a hint of longing, the untrained eye wouldn't catch it.

The doctor stares at the genius with confusion. He swiftly probes Sherlock's mind, curious and worry in the forefront of his mind to the strange distant feel of the man in front of him.

John freaks out when he doesn't sense the lilac and honey duo at all, in the air before he makes the mental connection or even after when he is inside Sherlock's very blank mind. Did he finally lose his gift? Did he finally push himself to far?

 _"I wasn't meant to pry into people's minds, I wasn't meant to use it for harm. I've lost it now."_ John's thoughts are sad, depressing, angry and fearful. _  
_

John clenches his fist at his sides, nails digging into palms as the anxiety and fear course through him, causing his heart to beat faster and his breathing to shallow.

_"Wait a minute."_

John realises something suddenly, he observes the lack of physical touch, the shaking form of Sherlock's fist out of longing, as if the detective is forcing his body not to touch the doctor.

John is reveling in confusion. The pair of them gravitate towards each other all the time even before they became lovers, and most of the time it is subconsciously. Now, the genius is deliberately forcing himself not to touch the detective.

Of course, John automatically thinks the worse. The detective is angry, probably for putting him to sleep during a perfectly good argument. Or Sherlock could be sad, sad at the betrayal, maybe even sad that John made a deal, a forced deal mind him, a deal with Mycroft.

 _"Sherlock doesn't even know about that...yet."_ John reminds himself. John takes a second to adds this to his list of things to freak out about. He is right, Sherlock doesn't know that John practically agreed to let Mycroft find out everything about the telepath in exchange for their freedom. John can't wait for that conversation.

The lack of intimate touch is still unsatisfactory and undiscovered.

John eyes find Sherlock's again. Gray eyes stare back at him and John jumps a little at the vulnerability radiating from the pupils with trepidation.

John scoots closer to the genius, his own eyes worried at the distress. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly and his attempts to move back at John's forward march. John stills, having moved maybe an inch and can't help but keep the hurt from his own face.

The detective's fist clench against his own chest, his knuckles white and flexing uncontrollably. John regards the younger man's face, it's soft and tender, sadness, apprehension and longing are painted with obvious care.

"Ah." John's voice is hoarse and he suddenly wonders how long he had been unconscious. John sighs, Sherlock has ceased contact because he is afraid, afraid to hurt John.

The doctor smiles weakly and rolls on his side, his arm abruptly cups the detective's cheek, moving tenderly, yet swiftly, allowing no time for Sherlock to escape the grip. Sherlock instinctively closes his eyes and leans into the touch, his whole body relaxing and his fists loosening with pacifistic ease.

John feels the warmth that he is craving, but the lilac and honey are distant, subtle. Sherlock's vibrancy is missing, missing or purposefully held back. The doctor tries to dig deep, looking for happy memories to soothe the detective and honestly, himself. The doctor knows Sherlock is holding his thoughts back, his mind is blank, not darkness like when he was in a coma but just blank, as if Sherlock has a fortified his memories and caused them to be impenetrably silent.

"I'm fine." John says quietly, and for the most part, the doctor is fine. A tiny throb of a headache that is going away swiftly is the only evidence of an episode. Sherlock just nods tenuously into John's hand, as if he is unsure of the truthfulness of John's statement.

The detective, with his eyes still closed, grabs John's wrist rapidly, yet gently, anchoring the doctor to him, as if the lack of contact is too much for the young man.

The doctor knows how emotionally vulnerable Sherlock gets, the self-proclaimed sociopath is just uniquely good at suppressing all emotions in public. Once the two of them are alone, his mask comes down, not alarmingly but enough that John knows how false the 'sociopath' thing is.

It's a rare form to see the genius so emotionally naked. It still catches John off guard, that Sherlock can feel so deeply, and even still, feel so deeply for someone like John.

The doctor closes the much too big gap between them. Soon, their bodies are pushed together, John's knees curled into Sherlock's thigh. John grabs Sherlock and pulls him closer so the man's head is laying on John's good shoulder. Sherlock lets go of John's wrist and flings his arm around the doctor's waist, completing the embrace. Sherlock yanks John even closer, nuzzling his head into John shoulder.

"Everything is fine. Mycroft won't hurt us." John says soothingly, trying to break through Sherlock's silence, both mentally and physically. Sherlock's mind still stays silent.

"I know." Sherlock's voice is a little hoarse, the detective hasn't spoken in hours, his voice is small yet stubborn.

"Do you now?" John can't help but raise a brow at the man.

"The likelihood that Mycroft would have...kept you from me is very low, statistically speaking." Sherlock spews out rapidly yet with perfect articulation.

 _"ah, there is the Sherlock we all know and love."_ John smiles into Sherlock's hair.

"But that's not what has got you scared." It's a statement and Sherlock knows it.

"No." Sherlock answers simply and sighs. John grips the detective's chin and moves it up to look into Sherlock's eyes.

"What?" John asks, his eyes conveying understanding and reassurance.

Sherlock just stares into John for minutes before speaking. "They seem to be getting worse." is all Sherlock says, before gently removing his chin out of John's grip and lowering it, resting his head back onto John's shoulder.

John just hums in agreement. It's true, the attacks are getting worse. They are getting bloodier and the headaches seem to hurt more and come harder each time, even harder than we he used to be hospitalized for the blackouts. In contrast, however, he knows more about his gift now and knows what he is capable of, not to mention that he doesn't even bother with the hospitals anymore. He's more comfortable and confident with his gift now, it's different.

"Yes. But it's more complex now." John states, conflicted about how to explain the difference. "You've helped me learn more about my gift, more about myself than I ever thought possible. It's worth the risk."

"But at what consequences?" Sherlock's voice twitches with a hint of anger, his shoulders tensing slightly.

John wraps his arm around the detective, speechless, trying to soothe the tension out of the younger man.

"I didn't know what happened. Once moment I was at Mycrofts, furious with him and the next I see you on the floor, bleeding and shaking," Sherlock's voice is small and full of raw emotion, John resists the temptation of probing his mind again, to see the image of himself in such a state.

"I sorry." John says, nuzzling his head into Sherlock's dark hair. He didn't intend for the consequences of his blatant disrespect for his health to traumatize the detective but it did and that is now John's fault. "I was worried that you were in a coma." John offers, his voice weak with shame.

"You knew that you weren't at best condition." Sherlock says. He is definitely angry now. "You knew and you still did it."

"I'm sorry." John remarks again. "It was the only thing I could think of."

Sherlock huffs with indignation and John rolls his eyes.

"I won't do it again." John adds.

"Yes you will." Sherlock states, "If the situation comes up between my health and your own you will always chose me over you. Just like you did with the guards."

It's true, John would do anything to protect Sherlock, anything.

"I don't like feeling like that John, helpless." Sherlock adds, tilting his chin up, looking into John's eyes. "That's why I think we should stop experimenting and reading thoughts."

John reels from the detective statements. The doctor doesn't know what is more surprising the fact that Sherlock is turning down dozens of potential experiments or the fact that Sherlock cares so deeply about John's well-being that he is willing to throw out the numerous future experiments.

"Wait. What?" John exasperates, this is not anything what he wanted.

"It's too dangerous." Sherlock states simply, his gray eyes piercing with uncompromising stiffness.

"They help." John says defiantly, his own voice now stubborn. "I wouldn't have been able to hear you at Mycroft's without them. I wouldn't be this far, this skilled, if we hadn't experimented." John cries.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock says simply.

"Irrelevant? I wouldn't have been able to save us if we didn't practice, we'd be doing more harm by not continuing." John shouts desperately. His own mind panicking at Sherlock's decision.

John sighs at the sudden realisation of irony back when Sherlock found out. John had stated that there would no experiments and now John is fighting to keep them.

"No. It's not safe anymore. I'm not risking you getting hurt because of the experiments and what they lead to in practical situations." Sherlock remarks.

"Practical situations. You mean reality?" John questions incredulously, "We wouldn't have gotten away from Mycroft, or the man who broke into the flat, we would have been dead without the experiments," John huffs, now he is growing angry.v"Besides, it's my mental health, you can't make this decision for me."

 _"Who are you kidding Watson? Since when does Sherlock, or hell, both the Holmes brothers every let you make your own decisions."_ John thinks with annoyance.

"Regardless, I'm not doing them anymore, they are not safe for you." Sherlock adds, his tone conversational, like he has already won, and he has, John knows it, he can see it in the detective's pleading eyes. John melts into the eyes.

"Fine." John spits, knowing that he lost, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He pushes himself out of the embrace gently, with just enough force to show his disgruntlement. He rolls onto his side away from the detective.

Sherlock sighs but lets go.

Minutes later, a door below slams shuts loudly.

"Mycroft's men are gone." Sherlock remarks with obvious uneasiness, apprehensive of the tension in the room.

"I know." John says, he had been monitoring them all along. The doctor sighs with resignation, he scoots closer to the detective, letting his anger subside slightly. It's not worth the fight, John knows the reason why Sherlock is being stubborn and he respects the detective's reasons. Besides, he also knows how bored Sherlock can get, it won't be long before the detective comes begging for an experiment or at least until John dangles an entertaining distraction.

John's not one for manipulation but the doctor might have the right ammunition to push Sherlock in his favor. The secret locations of the cameras in the flat that Mycroft's men have just finished planting.


	15. The Smell Of Blood

John curses Mycroft silently and bitterly as he enters the flat of 221B Baker street. His hands are full of heavy plastic shopping bags and his whole form is soaking wet from the light December snow, the flakes melting upon John's jacket. The politician had not only kidnapped him, he hadn't even bother to return the groceries left in the car. John had to go out, in the snow, again.

John huffs up the stairs, his mind automatically reaching out to Sherlock. But the detective is been decidedly stubborn.

For the second day in a row.

There haven't even been any subconscious exclamations or stray thoughts and it saddens John a bit, (he's also insanely curious about how much mental power Sherlock is using). 

All of this because Sherlock refuses to 'hurt John any further.'

John sighs in resignation as he climbs the seventeen steps, as he gets to the landing his braces himself for another quiet (i.e. lonely) night.

Just as his foot reaches the landing, John looks up and freezes.

The dodor to the sitting room is open, which is normal. What is not normal is the mess practically covering every inch of the sitting room. It oozes out of the open door and there are some stray papers floating out onto the landing. 

John doesn't drop the shopping, in fact he grips it tighter, disbelief and a bit of anger surfacing.

He takes a deep breath, heaves the shopping up a bit to get a better grip on it, he steps further to brave the new mess.

Papers, various instruments, and indecipherable items are strewn upon and they crunch and crackled as he steps into the room. His eyes automatically scanning for the person responsible for the mess. Oh hell, even the sofa cushions are overturned, scattered about, adding to the mess.  

"What the hell?" John grumbles to himself, sidestepping and hopping through mess, already dreading the clean up. He passes the television (which he straigtens so it isn't sitting precariously on the mantly anymore) and moves into the kitchen. 

John is hardly ever surprised by Sherlock's antics anymore (frustrated, resentful, and aggravated yes, but never surprised), so the scene before him doessn't even phase him. He walks straight to the fridge and sets the bags on the floor. 

Once the weight of the shopping is no longer cutting off his circulation, John turns and looks up at Sherlock.

Standing dangerously on the kitchen table, (the one that John has to continuously fix three of its legs [experiments gone wrong] and still wobbles haphazardly) the genius is fiddling with the light fixture above the table. "What in bloody hell are you doing?" John calls up to him.

"Cameras." Sherlock says as he moves his fingers away from the light and starts running along the ceiling tiles.

John takes the time to probe the detective, but with no luck, even the pairing of lilac and honey doesn't greet the doctor, he holds in a sighs.

"Cameras? In the ceiling?" John asks, moving back to the shopping, putting them away, every once and a while seeing if the genius lets his barriers down through his distracted searching.

"Obviously." is Sherlock's answer. Just as John finishes putting away the shopping, Sherlock jumps down from the table and runs into the sitting room. John follows curiously, his arms crossed and his back leaning on the kitchen door frame.

Sherlock is laying on the floor, halfway underneath 'John's chair'.

"There are none under there." John says coolly and turns back into the kitchen. The doctor goes about making tea, turning the kettle on and organising his fixings.

He notices idly when Sherlock enters the kitchen mere seconds later.

"How many?" Sherlock asks, John notices the detective trying to keep the haste out of his voice.

John just shrugs noncommittally, his hands filling the mug with water and proceeding to make tea, ignoring the detective.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's thoughts whine. John notices the manipulation, he knows that Sherlock has been depriving the doctor of his thoughts and this has put John slightly on edge. He is attempting to bring the doctor out and reveal the locations of all of the cameras.

John just laughs, "I thought you weren't talking to me." John states disinterestedly.

"I'm talking to you right now." Sherlock remarks. John rolls his eyes and huffs.

"You know what I mean." John clarifies. "Did you change your mind?" John asks, unable to get the hopefulness out of his voice.

"No." Sherlock declares. "I still think it's too dangerous." Sherlock crosses his arms across his torso as John turns around, the fresh cuppa in his cold hands.

"Well then I'm not telling you were the cameras are." John retaliates, sipping the tea, letting the warm liquid comfort his throat. The doctor stands straight in the kitchen stalemate.

Sherlock huffs, "That's not fair." The sulky detective pouts.

John just shrugs and continues to stare at the detective, wondering if the stubborn, petulant genius would falter, if he will give in.

"Since when do you want Mycroft to spy on us." Sherlock says smirking.

"I don't." John remarks simply. "But, I don't think you are being fair."

The younger man squints his eyes in concentration.

"I'm not saying we have to do anything extravagant, we just don't have to stop with the experiments." John states, letting his cards show. "And you bring down your walls, they are annoying." John adds.

"It's too dangerous." Sherlock repeats, his body tense, somehow both of them have been able to keep the argument out of the conversation.

"Worth the risk." John remarks, his shoulders shrugging with indifference.

 _"No, it's not."_ John scoffs at the stubborn detective. He stares at the younger man, debating his next move.

The pair sit in silent contemplation.

John sighs. "I'll show you were all the cameras are and we can send them back to Mycroft for his birthday."

_"His birthday is in February."_

"You know what I mean," John says through his narrowed eyes.

The stare at each other for ages, Sherlock in thought and John just waiting. After minutes, John picks up his now empty mug and deposits it in the sink. He turns towards the messy sitting room and braces himself for the tidy up. He moves towards the room with determination.

A tall, six foot detective immediately blocks his way. Sherlock peers down at John, his expression pained but fixed.

 _"Fine."_ Sherlock's thought ring through John with welcoming familiarity.

"Sorry, didn't quite hear you there." John says snidely.

"I said, Fine." Sherlock scowls, "But I have conditions."

John is shocked at how easy he got the detective to agree.

"Okay." John concedes, hiding the enthusiasm of his win. The doctor never wins, ever.

"If, at any point, you feel or I notice the starts of an attack we will stop, I will stop," Sherlock says firmly, appropriately implying that these are non-negotiable.

John just nods eagerly. "And you'll open up your walls again?" John asks hopeful.

"Yes, as much as they were before." Sherlock says, resignation in his voice.

 _"Now the cameras, John."_ John just smiles and the two of them spend the rest of the afternoon hunting down the almost invisible cameras.

* * *

The next week passes in a blur for the doctor, John spends his days taking shifts at the surgery and nights chasing Sherlock throughout London.

A few days back, Lestrade had called the detective, and about time too, John knows the genius can only last so long without a case.

The case consists of a triple murder in a locked room. Sherlock was at the crime scene in record time, John barely able to keep up with the whirlwind that is the excited detective.

The case has proven to be a tad more difficult and of course Sherlock is enjoying every bit of it.

John walks into the flat, barely dropping his bag and walking fully in the main hallway before Sherlock bounds down the stairs, grabbing the doctor's wrist and heading out the door.

 _"Get in the cab."_ John scoffs at the thoughts demand.

"No, Hi John, how was work?" John says, "Just get in the cab. Lovely." The doctor is teasing and he smirks at the genius as they both climb into the cab. Sherlock settles in next to John and says nothing, the doctor looks at the younger man and notices the face, the face of Sherlock Holmes thinking.

"Where are we going now?" John says after a few minutes of silence, his curiosity overwhelming him way to easily.

_"A lead."_

"Any more information or do I only get 'A lead'." John says quietly, looking up at the driver, suddenly feeling very self-conscious at the one sided verbal conversation.

Sherlock doesn't answer, John opens up the link and sees the detective's thoughts running a mile a minute, images and maps, people and places flooded at inhumane speed all over the detective's brain. John pulls out quickly, knowing that Sherlock hates it when John probes during a think. It's too big a distraction.

"Dangerous?" John questions as he looks out the window, his muscle itching with excitement like they always do with a case. The doctor is silently thanking the lord that his shift at the surgery was relaxed today.

 _"Possibly."_ Sherlock thoughts are distant but precise. John just nods and relaxes into the seat while Sherlock thinks and the cab driver transports them to the unknown.

John recognises the area of west London vaguely, and for a second, contemplates on whether or not to hack into Sherlock's brain to pull up a map to confirm. The doctor even looks over at the detective but then decides against it. The detective will be less stroppy if John doesn't interfere.

They pull up to a warehouse, it's exterior industrial and bland. The sun is just setting and soon they find themselves alone on the complex in the dark.

 _"It's always a warehouse."_ John thinks as he stares at the creepiness of the place. _"Who would meet up here?"_ John asks himself.

"By lead, do you mean you found out where the killer is?" John asks with chagrin.

 _"Took you this long, disappointing."_ John crosses in arms in annoyance but follows the detective as he moves towards the warehouse, silently wishing he had his gun with him.

 _"Here."_ Sherlock's hand dips into his jacket and pulls out John's gun. John grabs it, a new confidence in place.

Silently they both walk into the warehouse, machines litter the canvas, towering high over the two men.

"Split up?" John suggests, taking in the massive acre of factory and warehouse.

_"Probably."_

"What am I looking for?" John asks.

"Joseph Abernathy, red hair, mid thirties, one of the victims was his sister-in-law who was cheating on his brother with one of the other victims. The third victim just happened to be in the same room at the time. Joseph works here as the night shift security. He is the only one in the building." Sherlock rattles and then in a flash is off in one direction, leaving the doctor standing in the middle of the warehouse, his mouth agape, reeling from the new information.

 _"Why does he do that?_ " John asks himself before turning and sauntering off in another direction. He instantly opens up the connection and is comforted by lilac/honey as he makes his way through the creepy and dusty storehouse.

John sees brief images float through Sherlock's mind and they look familiar to what John is seeing. They both search the warehouse for ten minutes, neither of them finding anything.

The doctor stops briefly, a muffled noise permeates the hallway. John strains his ears but the sounds have gone quiet suddenly. He submerges Sherlock's connection, and opens up in search of new ones. New senses and minds find the doctor, clearly more than one brain ahead of him.

 _"There is only supposed to be one person here."_ John muses before aiming his gun directly in front of him.

 _"John."_ The doctor walks gently towards the muffled sounds, trying to lightly push into any of the strangers' mind.

Suddenly, John hears footsteps behind him, he turns around, half-expecting it to be the detective but a painful throb in his head dispels the thought. John plummets to the ground and his vision goes black.

* * *

John awakes to several things.

1\. He is sitting in a chair, his hands tied behind his back with some sort of rope. The doctor's mind is foggy but he can see the bright lights through his closed eyelids, he tries to open up more connections to find anybody in the room but he senses no other person and the throbbing of his head derails him so he stops.

2\. John's head hurts, and not from an attack, from an actual blow to the head. John tries to find exactly where he was hit while trying to still appear unconscious but he can only narrow it down to a region.

3\. The third thing John is aware of is Sherlock's persistent screaming thoughts rattling around in his foggy brain.

 _"John. John. Where are you?"_ The detective repeats over and over. John timidly opens the connection, all the while keeping his face neutral and unconscious looking.

The connection only throbs slightly and it's barely painful, John is familiar with the connection and even when the doctor is having an attack it's hardly ever overbearingly painful.

There is no way John can communicate with the genius, even though Sherlock's thoughts are becoming more frantic at John's disappearance. John does the only thing he can think of to communicate, hoping that the detective understands.

He sends a wave of calm into Sherlock and John can see the detective stop somewhere in the warehouse, his thoughts surging with relief. Then the doctor sends a very brief wave of panic to indicate that John is in danger. The doctor can feel Sherlock's heart beat raise from the emotion and then John sends brief calm to reiterate that he is alright. John stops the emotions and lets Sherlock think.

 _"John. Are you hurt?"_ John sends a wave of contentment and then paralyzing helplessness trying to indicate that he is restrained. Conveying his situation through emotions is new for John and he never thought it would be a necessity.

 _"Okay. Ropes?"_ Sherlock's thoughts ask and John internally sighs with relief _,_ he transmits happiness into Sherlock as a yes. _"Where are you?"_ John sends a brief spout of confusion, indicating that the doctor has no idea where in the warehouse he is, or if he is even in the warehouse.

 _"John, look around, find anything you can."_ John has avoided it until this point but decides to open his eyes, slowly. A breeze of blood, metallic and copper fill his noise suddenly and he looks towards the smell. His head throbs with the movement but he ignores it, he sets his eyes on the body next to him.

A man with red hair lays in a pile of dried blood beside him. John stares at the body of one, Joseph Abernathy, his mind confused. _"Who else is here? How is Abernathy dead? Why are they here if the man is dead? Why can I smell the dried blood this strongly?"_ John head reels with questions, he doesn't even noticed a man walking into the room until an unfamiliar face is kneeling before him.

John's head snaps back once he notices the stranger and without thinking plummets himself in the man's mind.

The smell of blood is ten times worse, John wrinkles his noise in disgust and immediately pulls out.

"Hello Johnny Boy." The man sings.


	16. The Crimson Memories

_"Hello Johnny Boy." The man sings._

* * *

John stills urgently, he would recognise that Irish accent anywhere, the sing-song voice that sometimes plagues the doctor's dreams.

"Moriarty." John acknowledges, nodding his head slowly. John sends a huge wave of panic into the detective, trying to convey the seriousness.

 _"John, what is going on?"_ John senses Sherlock reacting from the panic, his thoughts jumbled and disbanded. John backs off with the emotion and lets the detective think. John wishes he could talk to Sherlock, he wishes he could tell him that Moriarty is here.

The mastermind kneels before him, his suit expensive and clean. His eyebrows slightly raised with Admiration? Amusement? Deliberation? Moriarty looks like he is trying to solve a puzzle, the scrutiny unnerves the doctor but he doesn't break eye contact.

Suddenly, another wave of blood wrinkles the doctor's nose. John doesn't know if it's coming from Moriarty or the dead man beside him, and John really doesn't want to find out. The doctor is suddenly and irrationally apprehensive of opening up a connection with the evil man in front of him.

The two of them stare at each for minutes, Moriarty with his intense gaze and John stubbornness refusing to back down, all the while sending emotions to Sherlock, anxiety, fear, confusion, panic, with waves of contentment to tell the detective that he isn't hurt, well not hurt severely. He can feel the drying blood sticking to the side of his face and his head smarts.

_"John."_

It's John who breaks the silence first. "You are much shorter than I would have thought." The words are out before John can stop them and he instantly regrets it.

The doctor closes his eyes and braces himself for pain, instead Moriarty's high pitched laugh reverberates throughout the small room.

The laugh startles the soldier. John opens his eyes to see Moriarty standing up straight, moving around the room with no clear destination.

"You really do have a nasty bark, don't you?" is all Moriarty remarks, the laugh still evident in his voice. The Irishman finally settles for leaning against the wall opposite the restrained doctor. His arms are crossed, his whole body tense with nervousness? Why would the man be nervous, he isn't the one tied to a chair. John gazes at the criminal mastermind and realises something.

Moriarty isn't nervous, he is excited. His body is practically twitching with it and now John feels anxious.

"Why are you here?" John asks breathing through his mouth as the blood smell permeates through the room, enveloping the telepath. _"John_ "

"I came to see you, Johnny. Although it is a shame about Joseph, he was a good employee." Moriarty answers with mock sadness, his eyes briefly flashing to the dead man on the floor.

"Why did you kill him?" John tenses as he asks, stalling for time really. The images of hallways in Sherlock's head seem familiar but then again the whole warehouse looks the same everywhere.

"He got greedy." Moriarty says definitively, his tone unapproachable and John doesn't ask anymore questions.

Once again the two sit in silence and John is actually growing bored. John almost snorts, Moriarty, the world's most dangerous criminal is standing in front of him in all his menacing glory and John is bored.

 _"I really have to stop being around Sherlock."_ John thinks to himself.

Unwilling to break the silence, John decides to connect with Moriarty again, this time he gags through the onslaught of blood. Moriarty's mind only has one sense, and it's blood, the evil man smells like blood, he taste like blood, and John almost pulls out. The doctor has never come across someone with such an unappealing sense. John refuses to back down, even though blood fills his mind and various images, (the doctor's own) swirl around his head. Images of triage from the war, bleeding soldiers that John couldn't save. Pictures of Sherlock in all his post-case bleeding glory. Red fills the doctor's mind as he sees Sherlock, tied to the sofa bleeding as John watches helpless from the floor.

John shakes his head to try and dispel the images, but he doesn't break the connection, he probes deeper trying to forget his own memories flooding back painfully.

John pushes past the blood, even though it lingers unpleasantly through the doctor's mind and finds where his memories should be. Moriarty's mind is blank, as if the man is devoid of all thought.

John panics, he can't hear the mastermind, no memories, no thoughts meet the doctor, all John sees is red and smells the red substance, as his own thoughts fight for surface. John tries to send deep calm into the criminal mastermind. He stares at the evil man as the deep feelings of calm should wash over Moriarty, expecting to see Moriarty fall still and asleep. Instead, Moriarty just smiles, a devilish curl of the lips that causes John to reel the connection back.

Why can't he hear Moriarty? John literally tries to spit out the metallic taste that has invaded his mouth. The cooper smell still lingering unpleasantly.

_"John."_

John doesn't know what to do, he can't hear Moriarty, he can't send the man to sleep. John is genuinely panicking now. All thoughts of trying to get out of this situation are slowly becoming unreachable dreams.

 _"Why?"_ John asks himself over an over as he tries to communicate panic and confusion with Sherlock.

 _"Hang on, I'm almost there."_ John sighs with relief, and action that doesn't go unnoticed by Moriarty.

"Sherlock on his way then?" Moriarty asks confidently, John fights for control, fights for his face to remain neutral and not give anything away. Does Moriarty know?

John just stares at the criminal mastermind with his believable, yet false confusion. Moriarty's eyes knit for a second before his eyes shine bright with determination.

"Seb!" The shrill voice calls and John is confused for real this time. The door creaks open and a tall, very military, and very scary man saunters in. His stance straight and obedient.

"Johnny, meet Sebastian Moran." Moriarty says, the man looks like he is trying to hold in jumping for joy. John just stares at Moriarty and then at Moran in disgust.

Neither men say anything, John just stares at the ex-military man.

"Where were you stationed?" John asks, genuinely curious and attempts to convey how the situation isn't affecting him.

"Oooo, Sherlock is wearing off on you. Lucky pet." Moriarty exclaims and clasps his hands together. "Unfortunately, we don't really have time for chit chat. Seb?" Moriarty states and looks over at Moran, a definite unspoken command passes between them. John's body tenses with anxiety.

Moran moves closer to John and out of nowhere a fist connects with John's cheek. The doctor lists to one side, the force of the impact almost sending the ex-soldier out of the chair.

He can feel the bruise smarting but the images that Moran left behind are causing the worst pain. The connection is so instantaneous and gone so quickly that John doesn't have time to condition himself with the connection. The link breaks abruptly and John head burns with pain.

John tries to remember the last time a connection broke so painfully and before he can recall a time, as he is sure it had been months, another blow to his head interrupts him.

John actually moans in protest, flashes of bodies and even flashes of Moriarty himself enter the doctor's brain, causing the connection to become powerful before it breaks painfully.

The doctor's head is in confusion, his emotions are free and he can barely register anything other than pain.

 _"John. Hang on."_ Sherlock's thoughts offer comfort but John still winces at the intrusion. Another fist hits him hard and John has to brace himself so he doesn't fall out of the chair. Images of blood invade the telepath, bodies everywhere, image of gun, cleaned, the owner takes pride in the weapon and cleans it out of adoration.

"Stop." John hears Moriarty say and just as quickly as the connection started, it's gone. John is vaguely aware of Moran backing away but the doctor's mind remains distant, trying to pick up the painful pieces.

The doctor attempts to communicate feelings with Sherlock but everything hurts. He lets the lilac/honey comfort him even if it does make his head throb.

A shadow falls over John and he tries to open his eyes that he didn't know he had closed.

"Johnny Boy, you are a soldier. Surely a couple punches can't incapacitate you this much." Moriarty says, his tone with mock confusion and a hint of wicked amusement. The evil man stands, his body directly in front of John's blurred vision. "Unless..."Moriarty's sings, his voice high and piercing through John's already tender brain.

John doesn't even see it coming, his mind too focused on maintaining the pain level and attempting to communicate with Sherlock, nothing prepares him for what happens next.

A hand gently cups his cheek.

John's head explodes, the connection is strong and powerful, nothing like John has ever experienced. He expects painful images to find him, but nothing comes, no thoughts or memories, just blood. John actually screams, the sound loud and piercing. His head goes ballistic as the crimson flows around his brain, causing his own thoughts to come to the forefront. Painful memories from deep within the doctor flood his mind, the blood swims through, intertwining with each memory.

John feels the hot hand on his cheek, but the pain paralyzes him, John is still, his teeth and fists are clenched with fury, anger and pain.

Images of the war, bodies in the sand litter the doctor. The memory of getting shot comes to the forefront and his shoulder aches with the same intensity it did back in the sands of Afghanistan.

All the images are painful and unhappy, images of Sherlock being hurt, painful memories of death and blood capture the doctor's attention as his eyes unfocus and he becomes merciless to his own mind.

An unmeasurable amount of time passes, John's voice is almost hoarse from the screams and the pain is coursing through his body. The images are vibrant and torturous. John can feel the blackness coming, he can feel blood dripping down his nose.

Suddenly the hand is gone and John can breathe again. The blood lingers and so does John's painful memories. John's head lolls on his chest, everything in his body spasms with weakness. His muscles shake violently and his brain feels like mush.

Even the lilac/honey is gone.

"Excellent." is all Moriarty says, and at this moment, John is too fuzzy with pain that he doesn't even register what this all means. That Moriarty knows about John.

"I've got to go Johnny. We will definitely see each other another time." The words filter through the doctor's ears faintly, as does the door creaking open and close.

John doesn't do anything, he remains motionless, his mind reeling in confusion and pain. He tries to find Sherlock, the pain severe. Eventually he finds the lilac/honey. He must have cut the connection at some point. Through his painful haze and weakness, John latches onto the detective.

 _"Hang On John. I'm almost there."_ John sends his pain into Sherlock, very briefly. John doesn't stop, or reign in his emotions, the pain has severed his self-control. He lets everything he is feeling flow into Sherlock. His fear, guilt, anger, despair, pain, lots of pain and even his own cowardliness. His stupidity, to think he could beat Moriarty with his mind, his lack of bravery at being proactive in stopping the man.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's tone is heart wrenching.

Eventually, the pain becomes too much and John has to break the connection, just as the black spots fill his vision completely and John blacks out.


	17. Chapter 17

A pair of hands jolt the doctor awake.

The cold concrete beneath him makes him shiver and should mean something but all John feels is pain and confusion.

"John?" Sherlock whispers in a way that it clearly isn't the first time the detective has said his name.

Yet, he doesn't open his eyes nor start a connection, his head is throbbing and his muscles are stiff and weak. opens John doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't probe the detective's mind, his head throbs and his muscles are weak.

"Sherlock." John says with confusion, trying to piece together his scrambled thoughts. 

_Moriarty._

There's an instant wave of panic and John's eyes open in a rush, which he has to shut immediately due to the bright, florescent lights.

After a second, John braves the brightness and the small room comes into focus. The typical white ceiling, and scattered lights stare down at him.

As the detective's worried face comes into view, John realizes he's laying halfway in Sherlock's lap, long arms gripping him tightly, (which his instantly grateful for the comfort).

"John? What happened?" Sherlock asks, his voice firm but John can hear the barely masked fear.

"Moriarty." John says hoarsly and Sherlock's grip tightens automatically in response. 

" _What?"_

The doctor winces at Sherlock's intrusion which has the genius muttering apologies. John's head hurts but he raises a hand and waves dismissively but gets distracted by the damages on his wrists.

The skin is rubbed raw. Dried, crimson streaks paint his forearms and John can't hold in his confusion. His thoughts are still a bit scrambled. He can feel the stinging pain but he's fuzzy on how the damage came to be. the doctor brings his wrist closer to his face, examining the extensive injuries. 

The smell hits him hard even though its faint.

Blood.

He turns to the side, just clear of Sherlock's knee, and throws up.

Sherlock's panicking and John expels almost everything in his stomach.

_Blood._

His brain isn't scrambled anymore and his memories come back in a painful rush and, with it, the stench of blood.

Its lingers, in his nose, in the air, even on his taste buds. Its everywhere and John just wants it to go away. He leans back and brings his hands up to his temples and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping the memories won't consume him.

"John! John, what's wrong?" Sherlock's panic starts to mix with John's panic but there isn't anything to be done.

"Moriarty." John says finally, once the wave of images stop (even though the throbbing continues).

"He knows." The doctor says, panicking. "He knows. He touched me." He can't stop the tears of anxiety fall. "Oh my god, he knows." John repeats it over and over again, a fear-filled mantra.

Fear. It's enveloping John, causing his memories to flow with pain and blood and glimpses of sand.  John writhes and struggles, instinct kicking in, trying to combat against the memories.

"Shh." John is rocking and there's a hand being placed on his exposed forearm, mindful of the damages to his wrists.

The connection is instantaneous and painful and John lets out an uncontrollable whimper but the hand doesn't move. the connection, while painful, is silent and John tries to fight through the hurting, willing the connection to become familiar. 

Its like razor blades, hundreds of them, cutting into his brain, making it int mush. John tries to focus, he tries to look for the comforting honey/lilac senses but it hurts and he finds himself wincing and whimpering.

Sherlock's grip tightens against John's involuntary struggles and he starts to panic on a whole new level. 

Why is Sherlock doing this? Why won't he let go? Why does it hurt so much? Why won't he stop? Please stop. 

It feels like hours, but in reality only a couple of seconds have gone by. Finally, Sherlock's intentions become clear. Little by little the pain starts to recede and in its place is warmth and comfort. Memories start to come through, random images, memories, transparent and opaque at first but then they get stronger and stronger. When the images get the strongest and clearest, that's when John starts to really feel the emotions. Warmth, comfort, love, safety, calm, content, relaxation, and trust help push the remaining pain away.

"It's okay. I've got you." Sherlock soothes as he rocks John back and forth. The doctor lets the tears of relief come as he grips the taller man's shirt with his free hand.

One memory in particular pops through. Its the one of John calming Sherlock at Mycroft's house. The telepath lets the memory envelop him and its acting like a balm. He focuses on the calm and trust of the memory and its becoming stronger and in turn making John's head become a little clearer.

"How is this possible?" John rasp weakly, even more confused now. John opens his eyes to look at the stormy gray eyes.

Sherlock just shakes his head and the doctor doesn't push, he can't. Exhaustion starts to creep up on him as his panic recedes completely. 

John wants to open his mouth again, remark on how amazed he is, wants to ask, how is this even possible? It's some weird reverse affect of John's powers. The ability to have such a strong emotional memory that it acts as a calming agent for the doctor is unthinkable. Why? Is it because John is responsible for the intense calm in the first place? Is that why the emotion is so potent and transferable?

Or maybe, it's just another weird, really weird, quirk of the detective. John doesn't know, and he is way too tired right now to hammer out the details. He lets his eyes close.

"Hospital?" Sherlock asks timidly, as the man in front of him relaxes, his body going slack and his face lax with calm. John contemplates the decision. He isn't hurt, besides his wrist, which he can treat. There is nothing they can do for him at the A&E. Besides, the hospital staff would just hold him hostage as they try to find an explanation for his unexplainable symptoms.

"No, I don't think so," John states, "I just need rest." To prove his point John lets out a struggled yawn.

The detective nods, "Mycroft will be here soon." Sherlock states, pushing his calming memories harder and faster than ever. John is already exhausted so he has no defense against the onslaught of unfair memories, and before he can ask why the politician would be coming here, John's fight against sleep looses and his eyelids droop.

John falls asleep just as the sounds of a certain politician invade the room.

* * *

John wakes slowly to silence, his body cold and stiff, but the smell of lilac starts to warm him significantly, whereas the mental taste of honey soothe the doctor and cradle him in a blissful half-consciousness.

His head throbs slightly, but all smell/taste of blood is long since evaporated.

 _"Thank god, I wouldn't be able to stand it if that was permanent."_ John thinks with relief.

 _"John."_ John flinches at the thought, not out of pain but out of irrational surprise.

The doctor can feel Sherlock wrapped around him, the tight embrace stiff from the motionless sleep, but its welcoming all the same.

John knows the detective is awake beside him, the older man can feel the rapid thoughts pulsating from the genius, experiments and thoughts play on fast forward through the tactile connection.

_"Bored."_

John chuckles out loud, his self-control shot.

"About time." Sherlock huffs, as if John's sleeping is of great inconvenience, and knowing the detective it probably is. Nevertheless, John finds himself a little peeved at the comment. He's tired and can tell how much his attack wore him out. His muscles still ache and his head throbs tolerably. All the doctor really wants to do is go back to sleep, even though he knows he's been unconscious for a long time, if he listens to the stiffness in his shoulder scream at him. The doctor tries to push the detective away in protest, hoping that the branches of sleep will grab him once again.

Sherlock just seizes the doctor tighter, preventing John from moving at all, his grip pleading.

_"Don't. Stay, please."_

John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's face in a mask of begging vulnerability. John, of course, melts into the look and stops his small struggle and actually scoots closer to the detective.

He nuzzles his head against Sherlock's shoulder and closes his eyes in contentment.

"How long?" John asks after a couple of minutes, the question steadily routine after one of John's attacks.

"23 hours and 12 minutes." Sherlock answers.

John just gapes at the younger man in shock, the doctor figured he'd been asleep awhile but not that long.

"I've been out for a day." The doctor whispers incredulously, immediately feeling an irrational sense of unproductive laziness.

 _"Not technically."_ Sherlock's thoughts point out and John just rolls his eyes.

"Close enough." John states. As they lay in silence, the whole day wasted causes the sleep to leave and reality to follow with horrifying despair.

"He knows." John says, his voice calm but inside his mind is freaking out in a panicked frenzy. How? How does he know? Why?

 _"I know."_ Sherlock sighs.

"How?" John exasperates, his mind confused and scared. "I just don't understand. You and Mycroft are the only ones who know." John adds.

"I don't know." Sherlock says out loud. His tone filled with resented defeat and unhappiness.

"You don't think Mycroft..."

"I don't think so." Sherlock starts, his voice analytical. "There would be no benefit, beside my brother has never met Moriarty." John contemplates and nods, the politician is many things; a kidnapper, extortionist, the base of the British Government, and occasionally the concerned older brother but talkative he is not. Especially talkative to a criminal mastermind, proclaimed arch enemy of his younger brother. The thought seems unlikely, even more so to talk about something so precious. John's gift to read people's mind.

"I think you're right. I don't think Mycroft would share...valuable information with Moriarty." John states finally, still worrying how the criminal could have found out and what he intends to do now.

"What happens if Moriarty gets bored? What if he tells someone?" John questions feebly, not even wanting to imagining what would happen if people found out about John. The press would be everywhere and eyes would follow him with disbelieving grunts. John starts to panic internally.

"Who would believe him?" Sherlock remarks and if John was looking at the detective he would have seen an eyebrow raised on the defined, cheek-boned face.

John realises that the detective is right...again. Who would believe the criminal mastermind? The story is crazy and John only believes it because it's his life.

" _I'm always right."_ Sherlock's thoughts are smug as always and before John can respond, the detective continues, _"He'll want you all to himself."_ The thought pains Sherlock and sends shivers uncontrollably down John's spine.

John shudders at the thought of being in the presence of Moriarty again, the man tormenting him and making him smell/taste the blood, John sitting by in terror, his brain being forced to betray the doctor's control.

"It was nothing like I've ever witness." John states, "He controlled my brain, Sherlock. It was...scary. Beyond scary." John deadpans, his emotions so frayed by the thoughts, memories of the blood and sand worming there way through John's brain, it's easier to stay clinical and detached. "He smelled and tasted of blood," Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the statement, unbeknownst to the doctor, who is looking away, John's eyes misty with sadness. "He radiated it," John continues, "I literally tasted it after a while. He could bring up images and fill them with so much blood. I saw fallen soldiers on the sand, I saw myself get shot, I...saw you after you got shot."

The tears streak down both of their cheeks shamelessly.

John shakes his head at the unpleasantness, Sherlock grips and sends calm thoughts into John. The doctor tries to tell the detective to stop, tries to communicate how unfair it is that Sherlock can calm the doctor, but all John can do is feel the lump in his throat, preventing him from speaking and tears welling in his eyes, preventing him from seeing.

"I've never been so out of control of my own brain before," John continues, afraid that if he stops, despite his tears and emotions, he won't be able to speak of it again. It would sit in the doctor, bottled up in a container of fear, sadness, grief and pain. It's better to get it out now, no matter how much the doctor is crying or how hard it is to speak his vulnerabilities out loud. "It was like he was diving into my memories and picking out the ones that would hurt me the most." John swallows thickly, "I don't know how he did it, but I never want that feeling to happen again."

Sherlock's own eyes are letting tears fall, staring at the broken man in his arms.

"I've never thought my ability could hurt, or be used against me, and I never hated what I could do, not once," John states, "but in that moment I loathed my ability, I hated how much pain it could cause me." John sniffles at his confession.

"And it scares me," John proceeds, "If I can feel that much pain from my gift unknowingly, who's to say that one day I won't be able to control myself and inflict that kind of pain upon someone else." John exasperates, horror evident in his voice.

Sherlock stiffens with incredulity.

"You won't." Sherlock responds, his tone flat and firm and he holds onto the crying doctor with force, he stance reflecting his thoughts and voice. They say _"John Watson is a good man."_

"You don't know that." John cries, feeling Sherlock's confident body language but ignores it. His thoughts imagining images of future people running from him in fear. Their faces distraught and in pain, pain that John caused.

 _"I know for a fact, John Watson."_ Sherlock's thoughts offer a sense of relaxation, not enough to dispel the doctor completely, but enough to get the thoughts of future people in pain out of his head.

"How?" John questions disbelieving of the consulting detective's powers and predictions of the future.

 _"Because you are you, John, an ex-army medic, a gun-wielding cabby shooter,"_ John chuckles at that despite his sadness, _"and the most true and wonderful person I've met."_

John shies away from the comment, his wet cheeks blushing slightly. _"You have the rules for a reason John, if you have complied by them this long, I highly doubt you'll break them in the future, don't be dull, John. You are a smart, good man."_

Sherlock thoughts placate the doctor who's tense body starts to relax.

"I thought I was an idiot?" John remarks smirking.

 _"Oh you are,"_ Sherlock places kisses into John's hair, soothing the doctor. _"_ _But not in this situation, and besides you are my idiot."  
_ John doesn't know whether to bounce on the detective for his thoughts or to run away and vomit from the mushiness. Instead, he just stays, wrapped in his embrace, as the thoughts start to leave him, the doctor smiling, letting the lilac/honey warm him back into pleasant thoughts, away from Moriarty and his distressing hold.

* * *

"I think it's time for an experiment." Sherlock pronounces to the empty sitting room, loudly enough so John can hear him in the kitchen. The doctor peeks his head out of the kitchen apprehensively. Sherlock is upright, his legs tangled with each other and his fingers steepled underneath his chin.

John bites back a groan, so much for a quiet night full of crap telly. The doctor finishes making his tea and stares longingly at the telebox as he crosses the sitting, plopping himself on his chair, opposite the thinking detective on the settee. The doctor looks expectantly at the Sherlock, wondering what kind of experiment the genius is thinking about, a part of the doctor waiting in an excited anticipation.

Sherlock shifts somewhat nervously with jerky movements, John just stares at the unfamiliar movement and the unfamiliar display of nervousness.

"I find myself...thinking back to the night at the warehouse," John stiffens involuntarily at the thought and mimics Sherlock's anxiety. Unpleasant images plague the doctor's mind briefly. John tries to push the thoughts out of his head and listen to the detective, who is contemplating on how to communicate his words.

"It seemed...appropriate to be able to communicate with the feelings." Sherlock says after a few minutes, the detective lost in his own memories that he can't delete, no matter how hard he has tried.

The doctor stares at Sherlock, nodding in agreement. Truthfully, John hasn't thought about that part of the night in the warehouse, if he does think about that night, he is always swept up by the memories Moriarty tainted. He avoids those memories as much as possible.

He didn't realise how helpful being able to communicate with Sherlock with his feelings until after the fact. Now John knows, that conveying his emotions to Sherlock, the detective was able to act fast and prevent John from further torture. When Sherlock first found out something was wrong that night, based on John's emotions, he texted Mycroft who in turn gathered intelligence. Moriarty's own Intel alerted them to Mycroft's impending visit and the criminal mastermind fled, prematurely.

John shudders at the potential thought of Moriarty staying longer and tormenting John further. The images horrify him.

"I think we should have some sort of code." Sherlock suggests, breaking John out of his thoughts.

"The fact that we need a code should probably send off alarms." John remarks, smirking.

 _"Regardless, I think it would beneficial."_ Sherlock scowls and John just snickers.

"Yes, okay, okay fine." John concedes. "Who am I kidding, we get into trouble everyday. It would be helpful." John resigns.

Sherlock nods, his victorious nod. "So what kind of code." John questions, sipping his mug, wondering what the detective is thinking.

_"Well simple emotions for answers."_

"So, if you ask a question and I'm incapacitated, I fill you full of happiness for a yes?" John asks, slightly confused and disbelieving it's potential uses.

_"Exactly. Is that possible?"_

The doctor replies with opening up the connection, the senses overtaking him and happiness radiating from his mind into the detective. A definite yes.

Sherlock smiles warmly and John beams back. John retracts the happiness, letting it fade naturally out of the genius.

"Obviously sadness for no, then?" John proceeds, sending a very reluctant, very brief wave of sadness into the genius. Sherlock's smile disappears and a frown instantly replaces it. John backs out immediately and sends a happy wave again.

"Good, John." Sherlock says, shifting slightly on the couch, untangling his legs and putting them out in front of him.

_"When you are hurt?"_

John sends the easiest thing he can think of, a wave of pain, simple, short, and to the point. Sherlock's breath catches slightly and he grimaces. John is out, ready to apologise with fervor. The detective's hand is up and waving dismissively.

_"Excellent. When you aren't hurt?"_

John thinks for a minute before sending a wave of contentment to the genius, washing out previous feelings of pain.

"What about if you can't respond? Having an attack?" Sherlock questions timidly.

"If I can't respond, I'm probably unconscious," John snides back softly, "If I'm having an attack I'll send panic." John adds and sends brief panic to prove his point.

Sherlock nods in agreement and leans back on the couch restlessly.

"I think...I think we should have an emotion for Moriarty, something unpleasant and fitting." Sherlock suggests and John cringes, not wanting to really think about a situation where the doctor would need to use the emotion for the criminal mastermind.

John just nods with resignation and focuses on finding an emotion that he associates with Moriarty. The older man doesn't have to think hard. He sends waves into Sherlock who stiffens with pride.

 _"Fear and irritation, excellent."_ Sherlock's thoughts swell with the emotions, his eyes flashing bright but his face neutral, John backs out and replaces the troublesome feelings with calm and safety.

The two sit in silence, but of them relaxed, Sherlock feeling happy and John feeling happy because the detective is safe and calm.

"I just had a thought, this is going to make you invincible, the ability to actually read how I'm feeling." John asks, the sudden thought unbearable, the detective becoming anymore superior is a fate worse than death.

"You are controlling, I'm not doing anything." was Sherlock's snide reply.

"It was your idea." John mumbles grumpily and narrows his eyes at the detective who smugly smiles. The World's Only Consulting Detective also happens to be The World's Only Consulting Telepath Trainer.

Excellent.


	18. Tele-napped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the mistakes in this fic and I am going through from the beginning and trying to change of the verb tenses and errors. I'm on Chapter 9 for the edits so bare with me.  
> But, I feel like you guys would rather have new chapters than wait for me to catch up and do edits, am I right?  
> So here is Chapter 18 full of mistakes that I will eventually get around to fixing. Hope you enjoy.

John doesn't make a habit of shopping on his own, not after Mycroft so rudely kidnapped the doctor and threatened to keep him against his will _and_ use John as a tool in the British Government. Yes, the doctor avoids Tesco shopping alone for the sake of his sanity.

As if Mycroft impending presence isn't enough, John especially doesn't make a habit out of shopping alone because of a certain criminal mastermind who has made his his motivations clear and known recently.

However, sometimes life can't account for a stroppy consulting detectives who refuse to leave the flat for, what John thinks are, nonsensical reasons.

Today's 'reason' is the possibility of unsupervised, exploding acid. Why there's a necessity for acid in the flat to begin with is a mystery.

Ironically it just gives John another reason to leave. There's no way he's cleaning that mess up when it backfires.

The footpaths of London are busy as usual and so John finds himself weaving gracefully, yet lazily, taking his time getting to Tesco, mostly because he knows how busy the shop is going to be and that is something that John is not looking forward too, but also because John doesn't want to come home prematurely to the experiment.

However, for some reason fate, at least when it comes to Mycroft, doesn't like it when John tries to get the groceries, this will be twice now.

John turns the last corner, onto the street that the shop is located and stops instantly, creating a small traffic jam behind him.

 _"No, honestly, does this man not have a phone."_ John thinks bitterly to himself and looks around quickly. The politician stands against his black sedan right in front of the very Tesco that John is trying to escape too. Mycroft's stance is non-threatening and even friendly, his face relaxed and welcoming. John isn't placated so easily, all the ex-soldier wants to do is retreat. Irrationally, he scans the area and makes an escape plan, because there is no way he is getting in that car, not after the last time.

"John," The doctor can hear the man's voice clear as day, even though they are still quite a bit away from each other. The tone is a dark contrast to his stance, it's threatening and impatient. John bows his head and starts to pivot, turning back towards the way he came, when a hand clamps on his good shoulder.

The doctor sighs in resignation when he looks up to see the burly, suited man. The hand is gone as quickly as it came and now the two of them look like they are just standing strangely in the middle of the footpath.

John looks to Mycroft again, who is examining his cuticles, with an surrendering huff. Mycroft's goon behind the doctor nudges him, rather gently actually.

The doctor walks hesitantly towards the elder Holmes, who straightens, his eyes beaming like the thought of John complying actually pleases him.

John literally has to resist the urge to vomit.

Finally, the doctor reaches the sedan and glowers at the politician.

"So nice of you to join me." Mycroft says pleasantly, as if he weren't about to kidnap John, in front of Tesco, in the middle of London.

John contemplates briefly about calling for Sherlock, just opening up the connection and making the detective aware of his brother's latest conquest.

Two things stop him,

The first reason is the fact that Mycroft chose not to bring Sherlock into the situation, which he could have easily done by calling upon Baker Street (which the politician also has a habit of doing, kidnapping sedans and unexpected visits, that's Mycroft Holmes). Instead, he chose to abduct John again, seemingly ignorant to the last time when Mycroft took John somewhere against his will. The doctor knows that Mycroft isn't moronic and just like his younger brother, the elder Holmes always has a plan. So why take John in the most threatening way, is it purely out of convenience or is Mycroft setting the hostile and threatening stage for the rest of their chat, and John hopes to god it's just a chat and not imprisonment.

 _"Would Mycroft do that? After everything that's happened?"_ John asks himself with doubt.

The politician is obviously trying to not be threatening, he is waiting patiently for John still friendly, if not, a little impatient. _"Is the friendlies for me? Or in case of a scene, in front of citizens?"_ John questions the politician's grounds.

Maybe Mycroft chose this way to 'meet' with him is because the politician is truly not trying to take John away from his life, it truly is the most convenient.

 _"Couldn't he have done it more civilly."_ John thinks with resentment, stilling scanning the politician with hidden disgust.

The second thing that stops the doctor, as if the first reason isn't sound enough, is the fact that they don't have a code, or an emotion for Mycroft. _"Well, that was stupid of us."_ John scoffs to himself. Obviously, the oldest Holmes brother is the one they should have been watching out for. How stupid to have a code for Moriarty and not one for the most dangerous man in London.

Suddenly, John becomes frustrated. His mind is reeling and for the life of him can't understand why the elder Holmes insist upon playing John like a puppet in the doctor's own life.

Realising that he hasn't even attempted to the read the man's thoughts, John pushes himself in without hesitation, his frustration, anger and fear of the situation fueling his decision. One thing is for sure, John finds no qualms in reading the politician's mind, even if the man can feel it. For the most dangerous man in the world, John throws his rules out the window.

The doctor, in his new confidence, notices Mycroft's grimace immediately but doesn't stop. Instead, he lets the caramel and chocolate wash over him as he dives into the man's thoughts.

Mycroft's thoughts are fast, like usual. John concentrates hard and actively slows down the rapid thoughts. Images of the Diogenes club comes into view, at least John knows where they are going. The doctor digs deeper trying to find something, anything to gain the upper hand. The connection expands as John continues to hold the thoughts hostage and slow, the tension like a rubber band and the further John digs, the farther the rubber band stretches.

A firm grip on John's upper arm stops the doctor, the fingers digging into his skin with bruising force. The sting of the grip makes John loses his concentration and Mycroft's thoughts snap, sending a slight stab of pain, jolting the doctor before fading away. With John's focus lost, the images pick up their pace and fly by rapidly. John lets them go, somewhat tired by the exertion, he hardly ever uses this much energy when reading someone's mind.

John contemplates keeping the connection open, but a firm look from Mycroft makes John back out, not out of obedience but fatigue. The politician's mind is so intricate and hard to follow, it practically zaps the energy right out of the doctor.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson." Mycroft commands, breaking John's reverie, his face smiling, but his eyes bright with impatience and anger and his tone holding authority.

It takes everything in John power to not answer the command in the politician's voice. John may be a telepath now and a man who bloody well fears Mycroft but he once was a soldier and the soldier part in him is trying to tear itself away from the disobedient John.

The ex-soldier stays still, looking right at Mycroft, John's face cool and neutral.

"Do you remember what happened last time?" John asks, still catching his breath from invading Mycroft's mind. The doctor keeps his tone slightly threatening but with his usual good-nature. His eyes, however, tell a different story, the icy blue erupt with hesitant defiance and unwillingness to bow to Mycroft's demands.

The politician narrows his eyes, no doubt remembering their disastrous last meeting, he leans closer to John, the doctor holds his ground, letting Mycroft, rather reluctantly and awkwardly, into his space.

"John, I understand this may seem...alarming for you, but you will be getting into this car no matter what." Mycroft hisses and John doesn't have to be a mind reader to know that Mycroft is serious and unfortunately confident and right.

John, very briefly debates dropping Mycroft and his goon to the pavement with calm and sleep. Something stops the doctor, _"Yeah that would go over well, Mycroft wouldn't leave them alone ever again if John took that offensive strike."_

John's defiance shatters.

In the end, John really doesn't have a choice. He is getting in this car, regardless of the scene, the yelling or the insulting he could possibly do. So, instead of doing either of those previously mentioned, the doctor gets into the car wordlessly, his head held high and his thoughts jumping.

The thing is, John should feel fear, downright terror for getting into this situation again, maybe even anger that he could so easily be persuaded into the government sedan en route to (hopefully) the Diogenes estate. Instead, all the doctor feels is slight apprehension and a sudden longing for exploding acid.

Mycroft enters the sedan just as quiet, sitting opposite John, his eyes smug. The goon shuts the door and places himself in the front seat, next to the driver. The inside is plush and annoyingly luxurious. With a snap of Mycroft's fingers, a black, soundproof barrier slides up, effectively cocooning the two men in the backseat.

John glares at the politician, refusing to speak but keeping menacing eye contact.

 _"John. Can you pick up some more cleaners?"_ Any other day, that thought would have caused annoyance and fear but the detective has been strangely absent this entire time and John welcomes the sudden impression of Sherlock on his brain, not to mention the probable acid spill is the least of his worries at the moment. He instantly opens up to the comforting connection whilst he continues to glare at the elder Holmes, the two of them locked into a sort of staring contest that John never wanted to be involved in, ever.

John decides to send a wave of contentment to the detective, while the sedan remains silent. John doesn't dare reach for his mobile, even though it feels like its  burning a hole in his pocket this entire time.

Part of the doctor wants Sherlock to know that he is with Mycroft and that he may or may not be in danger but for the most part is fine.

Eventually, John gets bored, yes bored, and breaks the eye contact, he turns to the tinted windows and looks out onto London. His mind twitching with questions and thoughts, panic raising slightly as the streets becoming unfamiliar and the day grows darker.

 _"He's not going to let me go this time."_ John can't get the idea out of his head, the fear that Mycroft will keep the telepath for himself and use John for government purposes.

 _"Why would he let me go last time just to go back on his word."_ The doctor tries reasoning with himself, even though numerous arguments dissuade John's thoughts.

Sherlock being the number one reason. Yes it would be unbearable for the politician if the youngest Holmes interjected himself into Mycroft's life, trying to find John, trying to avenge John. But considering the advantages of using someone who can read minds, one, lanky six foot Sherlock Holmes is a rather small downside, one the politician could decide to ignore for the greater good of the government or, maybe, Mycroft's own selfish needs.

John shakes his head, trying to dispel thoughts. For know he would just have to wait and see and in the mean time try not to get Sherlock wound up.

 _"John, what's going on?"_ Sherlock pieced together the contentment, knowing immediately that John is in some sort of situation, because contentment is code for _"I'm fine. I'm not hurt."_

Not the correct answer for agreeing to pick up more supplies.

John just sends contentment again.

 _"It's not Moriarty,"_ John holds in his huff of annoyance and sends a wave of happiness and then lets his annoyance shine into Sherlock.

 _"Mycroft."_ Looks like they found a code for Mycroft after all. John actually snorts while sending the happy yes to Sherlock.

"Something funny?" The politician's voice echoes in the backseat. The doctor glances over to see the quizzical expression of Mycroft. John doesn't answer and continues to stare out the window, waiting for their destination.

"Sherlock will not be able to interrupt us this time." Mycroft says conversationally, his words alarming but the tone is not, it's nonchalant and small, an attempt to appear as less threatening as possible

John scowls out the window incredulously, "What, are we just going to circle London in the car until I talk to you?" John questions huffily. When silence answers him, John turns his head to the politician. "We are aren't we?"

"Yes." is Mycroft's simple answer and John's face drops.

How is going to communicate that to Sherlock? There isn't an emotion for driving endlessly around London with his boyfriend's crazy brother in charge.

Actually there is, an emotion that is, annoyance, pure unadulterated vexation. However, John couldn't convey that because that's already the emotion for Mycroft in general, not to mention how would the detective put two and two together, he's brilliant, but not that smart.

"Fantastic." John mutters petulantly.

 _"Where are you?"_ Sherlock thoughts are calm and collected but John can feel and see the panic as the detective whirls around the apartment, flashes of coats and pacing passing between the couple.

John sends confusion and irritation, hoping to give the idea to the detective that they, Mycroft and John, cannot be found.

"Mycroft," John starts exasperated, "Why am I here?" John slides away from the window and turns to face the politician, maybe this time they can be civil. John snuffs at the thought of Mycroft being accommodating, let alone civil.

At least, if John talks they can hurry it along and John can return to Baker Street.

"I only wish to talk, John." Mycroft states, raising a surrendering hand, John's pose a little more defensive then normal. John huffs and crosses his arms across his chest.

"You have a mobile, we could have arranged a meeting," John sneers, clearly annoyed.

"That's not how I work." is Mycroft's simple answer and John, surprisingly, accepts it.

"Yes, your right, dramatic kidnappings and theatrics are more your style." John says snidely, looking the politician straight in the eye.

 _"Are you at the Diogenes Club?"_ John, without alerting Mycroft, sends a wave of unhappiness towards the detective.

John sits, waiting. "What do you want to know, Mycroft?"

"Everything." The politician responds, and John is instantly propelled back to when he was telling Sherlock about his gift. Mycroft is as eager now, just as Sherlock was then.

 _"Are you at the first manor? The second house?"_ John sends two independent waves of unhappiness.

"Let's start with the rules?" Mycroft asks, and for the first time, he is hesitant, asking for permission rather demanding. "You mentioned them before."

 _"Are you at his office?"_ Sherlock's thoughts are panicking as the list of the places John could be grows shorter. John sighs, resisting the urge to shake his head in response. He sends another wave of brief unhappiness, indicating his no. _"Where the bloody hell are you?"_ John can see, through Sherlock's thoughts, the detective literally pacing on the pavement of some street.

John exhales with resignation.

"Rule 1?" Mycroft encourages, the first time he has showed any sign of humanity. This just makes the man more bloody terrifying.


	19. The Blue Sleeved Man

_Previously,_

_"Are you at his office?"_ Sherlock's thoughts are panicking as the list of the places John could be grows shorter. John sighs, resisting the urge to shake his head in response. He sends another wave of brief unhappiness, indicating his no. _"Where the bloody hell are you?"_ John can see, through Sherlock's thoughts, the detective literally pacing on some street.

John exhales with resignation.

"Rule 1?" Mycroft encourages, the first time he has showed any sign of humanity. This just makes the man more bloody terrifying.

* * *

"When I first got the gift, it was strange and new, I didn't know what was happening. I thought I was mad." John starts and Mycroft leans forward slightly, obviously intrigued, "When I finally settled down and realised...my ability, I came up with the rules."

 _"John, I don't know where you are."_ John heart wrenches at the confession, Sherlock's thoughts pained with defeat.

John sends a wave a happiness, _"Yes you do, just think about it."_ Along with content.

Meanwhile, Mycroft is nodding in excitement, his eyes following John's lips as the doctor tells the one thing that is so personal, so sacred that only Sherlock's ears have heard. John feels no reservations in resenting the fact that his rules are being coerced out of him, politely maybe, but still forcefully, nonetheless.

"And further yet, you have to realise that I was an aspiring doctor. I am rooted to help people." John explains, "And that brings up to rule one, if I have an opportunity to save a live using my ability, I will, if it doesn't risk exposing myself."

"This is the most important rule and it is the basis for the all the other rules. One that I abide by no matter what." John says firmly, looking right into the politician's eyes with conviction.

Mycroft just stares at the doctor, his face excited but a calm, neutral flows underneath, like the politician is trying to hide his level of interest.

"Why?" Mycroft asks with genuine curiosity.

"It's difficult to explain," John starts "The first few months of my gift, when I wasn't busy trying to get rid of it or hide the fact that I may have been going mad, I saw people dying all the time. Some from misdiagnosis and other from malpractice." John declares, he's never told anyone this before, and yes, the detective knows the rules but he doesn't know the reasoning behind them. Sherlock didn't ask and John didn't find it worth mentioning, the genius just accepted John's morals and moved on.

Now, the elder Holmes is learning so many things about John, the doctor has to resists the urge to shift with nervous movements.

"It wasn't until I started to accept my ability, that I started practicing." John swallows, "My nightly rounds were the best time because no one was around. I went around to the sleeping patients and find out all I could from them, their pain level, where they are really hurt, stuff like that. I would mark on their charts and when the morning doctors would come in they would investigate the discrepancies."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John but the doctor ignores it.

"Nobody ever knew it was me. A successful hospital has so much staff that an intern goes unnoticed most of the time." John observes, idly looking out the window as the sedan continues maneuvering throughout London without a destination.

 _"Are you in his car?"_ Bing, bing, bing. John resist the urge to smile at Sherlock's deduction, instead silent waves of happiness are sent immediately, and John continues his narrative.

"The rule didn't really get a good footing until I was stationed in the comatose ward." John sighs, remembering the still patients that couldn't bathe themselves or talk to their visiting loved ones. "I knew I could help those people and it wouldn't expose me." John states, "The ward's numbers in patient awakenings skyrocketed the week I was there." The doctor smiles to himself and Mycroft looks...impressed? This surprises John, the elder Holmes is not one to be pegged in cahoots with compassion.

"How?" is Mycroft's one word question, John translates it into, _"How did you wake them up?"_

"It was a bit clumsy in the beginning, I didn't know what I was doing and I could only do it through touching them, skin to skin." John explains trying to be as vague as possible, realising Mycroft doesn't really know about the tactile connection and John doesn't really want to explain it in further detail or really at all to the politician, some aspects are better kept secret. John continues his narrative without pausing so Mycroft can't interject.

 _"Is there a destination involved?"_ John wants to send happiness because Sherlock finally understands but he sends unhappiness for his answer and then follows it with euphoria and excitement. _"No, thank god you figured it out."_

"The brain, at least the way I see it, is in layers." John resumes, not letting the fact that Sherlock can still possibly find them shine through the doctor's face. "The surface layer is incoherent thoughts. I have to break through the first layer to get to the second and so on." John states and Mycroft nods his head in understanding, with an enthusiastic neutrality. John didn't even know that one could be enthusiastic and neutral at the same time.

"The second layer is where the thoughts lie, it's not hard breaking through the layers, especially not the first one, they are flimsy and offer minimal protection." John remarks, "After the second layer, there are more layers where deeper thoughts lie and other memories surface, as the layers go further down, the memories become more and more personal."

"I have to dig deep to find where the coma patients were hiding." John expresses, "In the deepest part of their brain lies a room of sorts, it's a mental apparition of course, but almost every person has one, including Sherlock, except that man is able to access his room whenever and it's decorated like a throne room."

"His mind palace?" Mycroft asks incredulously.

"His mind palace." John responds and they both share a chuckle, the two of them sharing a moment when tension evaporates and a genuine pleasant experience happens.

John hates it, he craves the tension again.

The chuckles subside and John proceeds, "Anyways, in this room, there is a mental corporeal form of the person, at least when you are in a comatose state there is, and I honestly don't know if it's there all the time. I've only seen it when I've waken people up. I don't pry that deep with conscious people." John remarks, finding it easier and easier to convey his thoughts out loud. It feels strangely good to get all of this off his chest, even though he knows that someday this is going to come back and bite him in the arse.

"So you talk to the mental versions of themselves and they wake up." Mycroft says, trying to understand, but a little confused.

"Kind of, I appear to them in my own sense of apparition. I lead them to the surface of their thoughts and that wakes them up." John states, looking towards the window again, wondering where Sherlock's thoughts are, they've been silent for a while now.

"And it didn't expose you?" Mycroft questions, wringing his hands with fascination.

"At first, the patients would wake up and talk of dreams and memories of a blond man, an angel leading them to consciousness. I got more cautious after that and soon I could erase all memories of my presence." John says with a sense of finality.

John stares at London in silence, slightly distressed by how easy it is to share this with Mycroft, they really need to move onto another rule.

"So rule one is you will save a life, if it doesn't risk exposure." Mycroft clarifies and John just nods, looking at Mycroft with an almost disinterest.

Mycroft hums over the new information for a couple minutes and John alternates between coaxing out Sherlock's thoughts (to no avail, the detective is being silent for some reason, leaving John really alone) and looking out the window, trying to find a location.

"What is Sherlock's brain like?" Mycroft asks suddenly, John looks over to the politician and catalogs the unnecessary hesitancy.

"A lot like yours, his thoughts rapid and incoherent until they slow down." John remarks vaguely, he may be forced to explain his rules and such to the politician but the elder Holmes doesn't need to know everything.

Mycroft nods again in contemplation, his eyes wondering.

 _"John, I've been so idiotic."_ John sighs with relief and chuckles lightly as Mycroft stares bewildered at the doctor. John is a little confused at Sherlock's thought, until he sees the detective running down the familiar Baker Street and into the flat, images of the stairs and then John's computer flash in the doctor's mind.

A shrill ring echoes the car. Mycroft digs his mobile out and glares at the screen before ignoring the call.

 _"Aha, got you now."_ Sherlock's thoughts are victorious and John can only deduce that the detective just remembered the GPS tracker program.

"I work for the British Government, John. Do you really think I would be traceable by my mobile." Mycroft says and John really wonders if the politician can't read his mind, the thought truly scary.

 _"Yes, but my mobile isn't."_ John contemplates saying this out loud, but he definitely doesn't want Mycroft to realise John still had his mobile.

"It doesn't matter, there is a GPS jammer in the car." John face falls, of course there is, of course Mycroft thought ahead. John sends a wave of unhappiness to the detective. _"No, you didn't find us, the GPS is fake."_ John can feel Sherlock's thoughts fall into contemplation again.

 _"The GPS isn't working, you aren't even on the map."_ John sends a wave of happiness, _"Yes, I'm untraceable."_

Anger courses through the detective as his thoughts go silent once again, John only comforted by the lilac and honey duo. The doctor sends a wave of contentment to the detective. _"I'm not hurt, Mycroft and I are just chatting, I'll be home soon."_ The doctor hopes he can convey that much, he doesn't believe that Mycroft is going to cause him harm anymore, the politician is just curious.

At least, John hopes this is the case.

"Are you two done communicating?" Mycroft's impatience shines, although, strangely, the politician doesn't ask how they are actually communicating.

John would have given an indignant huff but Mycroft's tone held a distinct authority that made John sheepishly smiled and shrugged, like a bloody school girl being caught, and that thought did get an resentful internal huff.

"Okay, moving on, if that's Rule 1, what is Rule two?" Mycroft asks, his legs crossing and his hands resting gently upon them, like the last few minutes of Sherlock almost finding them didn't happen. John sees no reason not to continue, even though he wishes their chat would end.

"Rule 2," John snorts, "is always have a pair of headphones ready."

Mycroft's look of confusion is priceless, and John doesn't speak until the politician is forced to ask a, "Why?"

"An aspect of my ability is hearing people's thoughts all the time, 24 hours a day. The first layer, where their thoughts are incoherent, they are also nondescript, jumbled. A white noise if you will." John states, "Music blocks it out, hence 'always have a pair of headphones'."

"Can you hear it right now?" Mycroft asks, drumming his fingers on his knee in thought.

"Off and on, depending on where we are at in the city." John answers, leaning back into the seat.

"Why would that matter?" Mycroft questions, leaning forward, his interest peaked again. The doctor can't help but notice the familiarities between the two brothers, they are reacting in almost the same way, all the way down to their body language.

"When I'm within a certain range of Sherlock, the white noise disappears." John answers, not really wanted to divulge the information, but he might as well keep going. "The range gets greater each day."

"Is that why you are with him?" The question is blurted and Mycroft remains neutral.

"No. Definitely not." John says firmly and without hestiation. He refuses to be baited by this man. He crosses his arms and looks out the window at the passing buildings. 

"Then why are you?" Mycroft asks, his tone irreproachable.

John shakes his head, sending a wave of annoyance into Sherlock, if John is going to have to suffer through this bizarre brotherly ritual, Sherlock will be forced to experience it too, but the detective remains silent and even that vexes the doctor who has to go through this alone.

"I love how you think that's any of your business, Mycroft." John states firmly, his body dismissive.

They sit in silence, Mycroft staring with gleaming eyes and scrutinising gazes. John vaguely realises the car slowing down as the buildings of London grow taller in height.

"Rule 3?" Mycroft concedes after a while and John sighs, once again.

"I don't pry into peoples' mind, ever, unless it involves Rule 1 or self-preservation." John says flatly, not looking at the politician. "I guess I should add, 'Unless within the parameters of a harmless experiment." John pronounces, knowing full well that this rule has been broken several times during experiments.

 _"Rules are meant to be amended to."_ John tells himself guiltily, trying to reason the clear breaking of his own rule.

"Experiments?" Mycroft inquires gleefully and John nods timidly. "Show me." The politician commands.

"What?" John gawks.

"Show me, I want to know what the man in the blue jumper is thinking." Mycroft says pointing out the window. John turns his head stupidly and notices the car has stopped, adjacent to a very green park. The man in question, sits upon a bench watching the playground with idle interest, his body somewhat tense.

"Mycroft, I just told you my rule." John exhales, looking between the man on the bench and the austere politician in front of him.

"I want a demonstration, Doctor." Mycroft demands firmly.

"I don't give _demonstrations._ " John replies snidely. There is no way he is going to probe that man's mind. He doesn't know that man, the man has done nothing to John and if anything, going over the doctor's rules has made John more adamant in following them. It is, as they continue down the list, becoming more and more apparent to the doctor that he hasn't thought about the rules in depth for a really long time, and that could be potentially disastrous. As for right now, it only adds to his insistent determination.

"Think of it as an experiment." The doctor and the politician stare at each other for a long time.

"John, if you want me to help you, I need to know what you can do." Mycroft sighs eventually, his face attempting to soften, but John sees the cold calculations behind the elder Holmes's features.

"Help me? Why would I ever need your help?" John asks incredulous, staring at the politician, mimicking the same cold gaze.

"John, I can be your biggest asset, and not to mention without it, you and Sherlock could get into danger one day and I could be mysteriously busy." Mycroft states, his eyes darting lazily, as if the conversation is boring him.

John gawks in bewilderment, his mouth widening and his thoughts running wild.

"Are you seriously manipulating me?" The doctor asks incredulously.

"Is it working?" Mycroft's eyebrow raises and his voice hitches at the end of his question.

"You are so much like your brother." John huffs, chuckling softly.

"I don't take kindly to insults John." The elder Holmes says, rather petulantly and John snorts, the politician's expression only furthering John's statement. "The man in the blue jumper if you please, John." Mycroft adds, displeased.

"Mycroft, this goes against everything I've taught myself to believe in and uphold." John tries to explain, futilely to man who rarely shows compassion.

"That's very noble of you, doctor but I need to see this." Mycroft huffs, the politician becoming slightly annoyed.

"Why?" John asks, flustered.

"I have my reasons." Mycroft adds vaguely. John stares with exasperation. _"Why would Mycroft do this?"_

"I'm not going to uproot everything that I hold sacred just because you 'have your reasons'." John states angrily, wringing his hands together and his body straightens with anxiety. If there's ever been a moment when John wanted to punch something, it would be this moment and Mycroft's face would be the target.

"I will not explain this to you doctor, either use this gift or commit Sherlock to a life without his brother, his very powerful, very caring brother who is most valuable in your cases." Mycroft states, ultimatum clear.

For a second, John thinks about just getting out of the car, making his life Mycroft-free. It's very tempting, but then he remembers all the times that Mycroft has been there, helping in the shadows, the overlying power resource that has gotten them out of trouble, gotten Sherlock out of trouble.

As much as John doesn't want to admit it, Mycroft is more of a necessity than, John or his detective would have ever thought. So, John releases his anger and tries to calm himself. He basks in Sherlock's silence but comforting lilac/honey for help and it works, soon John is calmer.

But that doesn't mean he is acquiescence, he only obeys Mycroft for the sake of the what if, What if one day Sherlock is in trouble and Mycroft is the only one to help?

"Fine, what do you want to know?" John mutters begrudgingly, his body still tense but the angry shaking has since stopped.

"Everything, What is the man thinking right now?" Mycroft commands with an icy glower. " _What is he so cold about? I just agreed to break my rule for no reasons whatsoever._ " John thinks to himself, with a bitter rage that the telepath once again has to calm himself down from.

Eventually, John, with hesitance and resentment, find the man's senses. The smell of bacon floats through John's mind as coffee sits upon his mental taste buds. The doctor delves deeper and finds the man's thoughts.

Images of a little boy fill John's mind and the doctor automatically notices the same boy on the swings. "He's thinking about his boy, he isn't suppose to be watching him today but his ex-wife is having her baby. The little boy has blond hair, brown eyes, a bit of freckles on his cheeks. He's over by the swings." John mutters absentmindedly.

"A little more if you please, John." Mycroft states and John huffs, suddenly very annoyed that Sherlock has left him alone in this situation, the least the detective could do is keep his thoughts off mute. John focuses, the thoughts are of the boy, nothing else.

"There's nothing, that's it." John tells Mycroft who doesn't move.

"Try. Harder." Mycroft demands, shooting icy daggers at the doctor.

John resist the urge to crumple under the gaze, John straightens his body and attempts to find something to please Mycroft.

 _"Too bad Sherlock isn't here, he would have an experiment that could give Mycroft what he wants."_ John thinks acidly and sends another wave of irritation to the detective for good measure.

Experiment? The word gets John thinking.

The doctor doesn't know why he did it, he should be under every sense of restriction, limitation. Especially if Mycroft is doing the commanding, but John suddenly feels the necessity to test a theory, an experiment. Very subtly, John sends a wave of very light and fluffy calmness into the man, trying to coax out memories associated with the emotion. John witnesses the man relax and his mind brings memories to the forefront. The experiment is a success but John doesn't feel victorious like he usually does, he feels kind of dirty and he contemplates making stuff up and feeding it to Mycroft, just get on with the chat, and not break his rule.

"John, what else is there?" The demanding and threatening voice getting slightly tiresome, but John decides to placate the politician, even though Mycroft doesn't deserve it. The doctor sends different feelings to coax different memories. John sends anxiety into the man and quickly the man reacts, sitting up straight and looking around. Images of a desk, blue-sleeved hands fly around, organising the pencils and papers, the memories flashing through John like a movie and the doctor watches as the memories play out.

"He's at work, it is earlier today based on the jumper he's wearing, his desk is clean but it's full of papers, I can't read them." John recites, closing his eyes to focus.

"Go on," Mycroft encourages, and if John had his eyes open, he would have seen Mycroft lean so far forward in interest that any movement would send the politician to the floor of the backseat.

"He's nervous, looking over his shoulder constantly," John continues, "He is turning on his computer, a CD case in his hand. He's looking at it, he's very fidgety. Someone coughs from behind and the man turns, he leaves the computer and puts the disc in his pocket while grabbing his coat." John finishes, he can't take anymore. As the images continued, the man's anxiety level grows and it is becoming painful for the doctor, and John can't even imagine what the jumper-clad man is feeling. Besides, John knows an attack in the making and if the doctor continues, soon his nose will be bloody and his brain will short with pain and blackouts.

Plus, isn't this what he feared, using his gift to hurt people. Mycroft has brought one of John's worst fears into light. The future is so much closer than the doctor would have ever thought.

John, guiltily, sends a feeling of calm and backs out of the man's brain enthusiastically.

He opens his eyes to see Mycroft texting on his mobile. John becomes annoyed that Mycroft asked for a _demonstration_ just to ignore it.

John leans back into the leather seat, crossing his arms with irritation. _"Why would Mycroft ask for a demonstration to just text on his mobile the entire time?"_ John ask himself, feeling something strange is going on.

A sudden thought hits the telepath.

"Who is that man? What do you want with him?" John asks, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm afraid," Mycroft starts, looking up from his mobile into the angry doctor's eyes, "it's classified."

John's mind explodes and he sends thoughts of anger into Sherlock subconsciously.

"Classified?" John seethes, "Are you bloody kidding me?"

"You were very helpful, John." Mycroft says and the car lurches forward, starting their trek around London again. John can't even see straight.

"You used me." A statement, a fact, a very troubling and angering one. John looks back out the window to the fading playground, just as they turn the corner, soldier sees suited agents converging upon the grassy area, headed right for the man.

John almost shatters in guilt. Not only did Mycroft use him, but that man is now under the arrest of the British Government and Mycroft himself.

"I'm sorry John, it was my last resort, the man has been...elusive. We haven't been able to get him." Mycroft deadpans and John seethes. Anger at being manipulated once again.

"He had a kid, Mycroft." John states, pinching the bridge of his nose, a normal, very stressed related headache forming, probably just to add to John's anger.

"And what is on that CD will put many more kids at risk." Mycroft bites back with a uncharacteristic sneer.

John stares agape at the man, at the underlying compassionate thought or at the fact that Mycroft snapped at him, John doesn't know.

 _"A HA!"_ Sherlock's thoughts scream suddenly and John winces slightly but quickly regains his anger and fury, whilst he sends a wave of confusion to the detective.

Before John can yell appropriately at the politician, the shrill of Mycroft's mobile interrupts the doctor. The elder Holmes digs his phone out once again and answers the call.

John watches, seething silently, as Mycroft barely has a conversation.

"Holmes." Mycroft answers and listens silently.

"Yes sir." Mycroft says mere thirty seconds later and hangs up the mobile. Once the call disconnects, Mycroft sends out a text message and then pockets his mobile and gives John his attention.

The doctor glares in disgust, all sense of compliance gone, regardless of the elder Holmes's threats of never helping the detective ever again, John is not some puppet for Mycroft.

"I'm afraid we are going to have to cut this chat sort, John." Mycroft says matter of fact and John is surprised, he half expected the politician to talk some bollocks about how John help is for the greater good, trying to get John to see the politician's side of things.

Mycroft doesn't even bother, knowing full well that John's mind is going to change and the doctor feels strongly about it.

And yet, Mycroft put John in the situation in the first place. This thought fuels John's disgust and the doctor spends the rest of the car ride in silence, not even looking at the elder Holmes, staring out the window as the streets become more and more familiar as they get closer to Baker Street.

"John-" Mycroft starts finally, as the car pulls onto Baker Street.

"I'm not doing that again Mycroft. I'm not some government pet that bends to your every whim and spies on people. Even if it is for the greater good." John doesn't shout, but his tone is angry and firm.

"I'm sorry to hear that John, you have proven to be very beneficial." Mycroft states as John begins gripping for the door handle as the sedan stops outside 221B.

"Mycroft!" John hisses.

_"John."_

"Very well, This is a one time thing then." Mycroft offers, his face finally showing a sign of accommodation and if John wasn't so hell bent on getting out the car and away from the aggravating politician and the aggravating day, the doctor would have commented on it. Instead, John bolts from the car and heads towards the flat door.

The whir of the car window descending makes John stop and turn around slowly.

Another thought comes to John. Mycroft is strangely accepting now, what is different?

"You were never going to keep your..services from Sherlock, were you?" John asks, looking at Mycroft through the window, he sighs in resignation.

"Of course not, I'm afraid I lied," Mycroft pronounces, "A calculated guess that you needed motivation, John." On a normal day, John would have huffed in anger, or stomped his foot, the doctor might have even yelled insults and obscenities. This, however, isn't a normal day. Acid experiments to kidnappings to being coerced into demonstrating his gift, the most personal thing John has, being forced onto an unsuspecting man to being dropped off at his flat like nothing happened. This is definitely not a normal day by any means. So for the sake of John's sanity he does nothing.

"Oh and John I will be wanting to hear about the rest of your rules. If I knew them, maybe I wouldn't break them...accidentally." Mycroft smirks, the first sign of true danger that John has ever seen in the elder Holmes.

 _"The bollocks of this man."_ John hears the whir of the window again and turns just in time to see the sedan driving away, the sound of the engine startling John.

John breathes deep in relief, almost collapsing from the suddenness of the emotions, as the sedan drives down the street and turns the corner, disappearing from John's view.

John doesn't know if he can survive another chat.


	20. The Yarders

John continues to stare in relief, long after Mycroft's car is gone, the cool London air wrapping around the doctor, his head whirling with thoughts and his anger still making his body tense.

Thin arms are suddenly around John, pulling the doctor back into the flat and embracing John simultaneously.

John looks around and notices that he is in the entryway of 221, Sherlock's arms still wrapped around him.

Abruptly, John pushes himself out of the embrace and turns to face the genius.

Sherlock's face is soft and welcoming, relief evident too.

John punches Sherlock in the detective's his good shoulder, forcefully.

"What was that for?" Sherlock ask bewildered, rubbing his shoulder thoughtfully, whilst staring at the doctor.

"You left me alone, to deal with your brother." John spits angrily. Sherlock's face looks amused but his tone is serious.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really think about it. I was trying to get you away from him. Excuse me!" Sherlock huffs, turning and walking up the stairs, his face showing a twinge of hurt and disparage.

"Sherlock, wait." John calls, and follows the detective up the steps and into the flat, John realising that his anger is misplaced. John catches up with the detective in the sitting room, Sherlock keeps walking through, bypassing the settee and the chairs and moving right into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," John calls, "you're right, I'm not angry with you." John says desperately, following Sherlock into the kitchen, the detective flipping on the kettle, foreshadow John's own actions.

"I know." Sherlock resigns leaning against the counter, letting his head fall. John crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around the detective, who reciprocates, completing the embrace.

"Thank you, I couldn't bare to be in that car any longer." John remarks quietly, "I'm very angry with your brother." John appends, nuzzling his head into Sherlock's broad chest.

 _"That makes two of us."_ Sherlock is bitter, hopelessly so and John can't blame him, the doctor is feeling the same and much more.

"How did you save me?" John inquires, once the tension from the previous moment is gone and they are both relaxing in each others arms.

"I know a duchess who owned me a favor. I just had Mycroft's boss beckon him." Sherlock deadpans and John is impressed, wholeheartedly so, in fact, it leaves the doctor speechless for a second.

"A duchess?" John finally gasps out. Sherlock lifts a hand and grips John's cheek, the link instantaneous. The detective wastes no time in bringing a memory, the two of them giggling at a crime scene together, the memories exude happiness. A yes.

John smiles and leans into the touch before Sherlock leans down and kisses the doctor, all thoughts going silent, but John pushes appreciation and euphoria into the detective.

 _"Your welcome, John but stop cheating."_ John chortles and quiets his emotions, letting the kiss be the one in charge of the emotions surging between them.

Finally they break the kiss, the kettle screaming it's shrill song, laughing John pushes away and goes about making his much deserved tea.

Meanwhile, Sherlock moves into the sitting room, plopping himself upon the settee, waiting for John.

"Motion sickness." Sherlock states randomly.

"What?" John says, walking into the room, already sipping his hot tea, burning his tug in the doctor's earnest.

"For next time, send motion sickness. If you are stuck in something that travels, get sick." John chuckles at the thought and sends a wave into Sherlock.

"Stop that, not now." Sherlock cries and puts a hand up in surrender, John gets rid of the emotion and sits beside the detective on the couch, curling himself into the younger Holmes.

"Sherlock, I hope to god there isn't a next time." John exclaims, "I don't think I could resist killing your brother."

 _"That makes two of us."_ Both of them look at each other and burst out laughing.

* * *

For months, nothing happens, Mycroft has become busy with one thing or another and John has finally forgiven the politician. Not before several screaming matches between the two of them and occasionally even between Sherlock, John and the politician.

No, now John and Mycroft are on decent terms but that doesn't mean John wants a solitary visit with the politician anytime soon, most definitely not.

Not even Moriarty has surfaced again, Sherlock, and John too, are sitting on edge. The doctor and his detective knowing that something big is coming.

Despite that all, John and Sherlock have continued life as normal. They've even grown closer because of the whole Mycroft ordeal, taking experiments farther and their code has become more in depth.

Sometimes, John would come home from the surgery and Sherlock will have another emotional code that the two of them would sit for the rest of the night learning and mastering, making it ready and applicable to real life situations. It reminds the ex-soldier of battle plans. Going over the maps and orders multiple times so that one is prepared for the actual fight.

With each new emotional code, their ritual is the same, they spend time mastering it between them, John sending the code and Sherlock interpreting it right so he can almost effectively read John's mind.

There is only one emotional code they haven't done this to, and that's the one they've label as "Mycroft."

They both happily agreed that Mycroft emotional code is annoying irritation. It was an easy decision really and hardly needed any practice.

In all honesty, John should really thank the politician, without Mycroft blatant interference, Sherlock and John wouldn't have realised the importance of an accurate and detailed emotional code and they wouldn't be this far along.

Now, John can push emotions with twinges of other emotions to convey something more detailed. For example, the doctor would push thoughts of happiness for yes with twists of other emotions to convey more to the yes. Like if Sherlock asks John to buy more milk while the older man is out shopping, the doctor would reply with happiness but add a twist of resentment that says, _"Just this once,"_ or _"Fine, but you owe me."_

Not that John encourages Sherlock to push thoughts to convey his personal shopping list, that would anger John greatly.

Mostly this aspect comes in handy with annoying Mycroft to the extent that he doesn't stay long when he comes around the flat, because the two of them don't talk out loud in front of them, there isn't a need.

Other than that, the doctor has learned, thanks to the detective's help, how to control the pushing of the emotions. John now knows how much pressure to add to an emotion in order to cause sleep or in a few cases a slight coma. John has put Sherlock into a coma twice, it wasn't the doctor's fault the first time, they were experimenting and the ex-soldier didn't know the line/boundary then. Sherlock slept briefly before John found him in his mind palace and tore him out of the coma.

The second time, however, may have been a little bit more malicious. Sherlock, on a case binge, hadn't sleep for days and the detective's mood was worsening. It really was an accident even though the intent a little premeditated, John really was just trying to calm the detective down enough where Sherlock could find some hours of slumber. John thought he pulled out quick enough but it wasn't until Sherlock had slept for twelve hours straight before John realised he was probably in a coma. John contemplated pulling the detective out then, but instead, based on the genius's exhaustion, let Sherlock go for another ten hours.

Sherlock was pissed when John finally enter the corporeal throne room and grabbed the genius.

however, John was forgive quickly when, after overcoming his sleepiness, Sherlock was able to communicate that he had solved the case in his mind palace, thanks to the doctor.

From then on, John was a lot more cautious and now he knows the line with a very distinctive clarity. He knows how to calm someone very deeply so they enter sleep themselves and he knows how to instill a coma, but most importantly, he knows where the line starts and stops.

His gift is getting very powerful and the thought scares John. The doctor wonders idly a lot about what would happen if he took a negative emotion and pushed someone to the same line he can produces comas at. What would happened if he pushed someone to such fury? What kind of violence would happen?

Sherlock, of course wants to test it. John adamantly refuses and eventually adds it as a another rule, which causes Sherlock to drop the subject. John also added a rule about the effects of calming people into comas.

(Rule #11; Creating comas are purely for self-preservation, not harm. Rule#12, pushing negative emotions upon someone is strictly prohibited.)

The past months have been good to the doctor and his detective, John's gift just keep growing and growing and Sherlock is supportive, well as supportive as a Holmes can be, but mostly Sherlock just revels in the fact that he rarely has to speak out loud.

In fact, John and the genius have gotten so good at their emotional code that between the detective asking questions and John answering with emotions, the two of them can have a conversation without speaking.

Kind of a scary thought.

John and Sherlock where in the middle of such a conversation when they enter Scotland Yard, finding a cold case for Sherlock who is steadily driving John crazy with all of his thoughts proclaiming boredom every five seconds.

It is between a cold case or cold blooded murder.

_"What if they are boring?"_

John raises an eyebrow and sends a bout of unhappiness and irritation. _"You know that's not true, you'll solve them all. Don't be difficult."_

 _"John,"_ Sherlock's voice whines.

John shakes his head and sends another bout of sadness and then a twinge of defiance. _"No, shut up, we are doing this."_

John picks up his pace, putting himself in front of Sherlock, wanting to get to the DI's office ahead of Sherlock to prove a point.

The detective huffs, but follows close behind.

John raises his hand to knock on Lestrade door but before his knuckles hit the frame, Sherlock's hand is around the knob and forcing his way into the DI's office without warning.

John sends a ripple of disgust and frustration. _"You could knock, this is rude."_

Sherlock ignores the doctor and enters the office with an exasperated yell from Lestrade.

"Calm down, Lestrade, I'm here to help you with your cold cases." Sherlock says disinterestedly, plopping himself dramatically into a chair opposite the older man's desk, letting his arms cross petulantly. _"And it's practically against my own will, by the way."_

John chuckles out loud at Sherlock's thought. The doctor transmits suspicion, arrogance and smugness to Sherlock. " _You are such a liar, you've been dying for something stimulating for days."_

 _"Yeah, but not boring cold cases, John._ " The detective looks at John quickly with a scoff before turning back to the DI, whipping out his mobile in the process.

"Good Morning Lestrade," John says pleasantly, walking towards the DI and shaking his hand. "Sorry about him," John says pointing a finger at the now texting detective.

"Don't worry, I'm use to it." Lestrade replies sending a quick glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Yeah," John starts and then whispers, "this is why we can't have nice things." Lestrade erupts in laughter and John follows.

 _"Are the two of you going to just stand there making fun of me or are we actually going to solve some murders."_ John casts a sideways glance to Sherlock, who hasn't moved, not even his head.

John directs smugness and suspicion to the genius. _"So you **do** want cases?"_

 _"Shut up John."_ John chuckles again before bringing his full attention back to the DI who didn't notice a thing in his laughing fit.

"So, Greg, how's Mycroft?" The DI wipes tears from his eyes and proceeds sits down behind his desk, gesturing for the doctor to take a seat too. John complies and crosses his legs comfortably.

_"What are you doing? Are you making small talk on purpose?"_

The doctor pointedly ignores the detective and gazes at Lestrade with an acute listening pose.

"We are good, very good. You two on good terms again?" Lestrade asks nonchalantly. The Inspector doesn't know the full details of the tiff between the three of them and that's on purpose but the DI isn't a complete idiot, somethings can't go unnoticed.

"Yes, we are okay. Until he tries to manipulate me again." John remarks honestly, Lestrade doesn't take offense and chuckles in agreement.

"I don't even want to know what it would feel like working underneath him. He would be a scary boss." Lestrade states conversationally, a little chuckle in his voice.

_"I'm sure that's not true, I'm pretty sure that Lestrade loves working **underneath him.** "_

John almost lurches forward and has to hold in the exasperated snort at Sherlock's uncharacteristic lewd comment.

A stream of shocked bewilderment with a twist of bashfulness are sent forcibly, _"I can't believe you just said that. That's gross. That's your brother."_

John sees the near invisible shrug in Sherlock's shoulders as the detective focus, once again, on his mobile.

"I can't imagine," John tries to respond but it comes out slightly weak and John hopes his cheeks don't flush with embarrassment.

Gratefully, Sherlock decides to finally speak, out loud this time.

"Bored. DO you have a case or don't you?" Sherlock demands grumpily.

Lestrade raises and eyebrow at John and the doctor just returns it with a slight shake of the head.

A knock echoes the room suddenly, both John and Lestrade look towards the open door.

_"Donovan."_

"Hello Donovan." John calls to the open door, sensing her mind before actually seeing the Sargent.

"Come in, Sally." Lestrade says and the woman enters the room hesitant. In her hands she grips a cold case box with a file on top.

"Anderson's on his way up too," Donovan states, walking through the doorway, into the office, the box bulky but manageable.

 _"Fantastic,"_ John thinks bitterly and looks over to the detective who is just staring at Donovan, his deduction face overtaking his features.

With a dramatic whip of his coat, the genius is up and over to Sally before she even makes it fully into the office.

Sherlock rips the folder off the top of the box and moves to opens it up.

A spurt of displeasure, irritation and forlorn is thrown at Sherlock. _"Stop being moody. Bit not good."_

Sherlock looks between the doctor, seeing John's expression, and back to Sally. The detective doesn't say anything, but his face softens in her general direction and his movements are less jerky as he sits back down into his chair, silently.

That's the best John is going to get, and he better well appreciated.

Sally and the DI just stare at the exchange, like Sherlock turned into an alien right in front of their eyes.

Sally walks further into the room and sets the box upon Lestrade's desk and then she moves off to the side, leaning against the wall, her eyes staring at the freak opposite.

 _"John, look at these."_ Sherlock peers into the file and John stands up, walks over and observes the file over Sherlock's shoulder, the doctor ignores the quizzical looks coming from the Inspector and his Sargent.

The file hosts pictures of the crime scene along with eye-witness accounts, along with information on the victim.

One, Christine Ward, journalist at a controversial newspaper company, she was bludgeoned to death. The autopsy showed no other wounds and the evidence was washed away in the afternoon rain that had occurred earlier in the day. John takes the picture of Ward's mangled body and holds it up to his face.

"Her name is Christine Ward." Lestrade says, oblivious to the fact that John and Sherlock already have this information.

"Yes, yes, Lestrade, we can read, now kindly shut up." Sherlock huffs and John clears his throat, loudly. The detective looks up at him and John shoots him a look, that look. The 'bit not good' look. Not to mention the same disgruntled forlorn floats into Sherlock's brain at the same time.

"Fine, be quiet, _please_." Sherlock says looking at Lestrade who stares in shock and John nods appreciatively.

John turns to look back at the picture again but Sherlock's thoughts interrupt him.

 _"Oh, fantastic, Anderson is here."_ Sure enough, John can sense Anderson's mind coming closer.

John sends a wave of calm and pride. _"Please be nice."_

 _"No promises."_ John sighs.

"Anderson," Sally says as soon as the forensic tech gets within vision.

"Freak, I see you've got the Ward case. Tricky one that is." Anderson states,

 _"His mere presence is lowering IQ, John."_ The detective whines.

John reiterates by sending calm and pride, he adds a bit of pleading into the mix. " _Please, be nice."_

"There was no evidence, I still think it was one of the people she wrote a story about. Journalism can be brutal." Anderson states conversationally.

_"Nice."_

"Fine," Sherlock mutters out and rolls his eyes, "You are wrong, again, it's not a subject of one of her articles, the crime is hesitant, an accident, it's in a bright part of town. If it was someone from her articles they wouldn't be hesitant nor would they be in an area so public, alleyways would be there thing, they would have had a plan. No, she was meeting someone and that's when they killed her. Honestly, Anderson it's not hard if you actually open your eyes." Sherlock states. It's not as harsh as he could have been but it's not exactly nice.

John sends a wave of disappointment.

 _"What? That was nice."_ Sherlock huffs indignantly. John just turns back to the picture, examining the bruises.

 _"Blunt force trauma?"_ Sherlock questions after a few minutes, John sends a wave of happiness but then adds on confusion.

 _"Yes, but there are bruises on her hands."_ John puts the picture in front of the detective's face, pointing to the areas of the body that indicate the starting of bruises, the traces of the first stage are almost invisible to John and they would be completely transparent to the untrained eye.

_"Autopsy said that there were no other markings of wounds, just the fatal blow."_

Another stream of confusion and then a twist of curiosity. _"Why would the pathologist lie?"_

 _"Corrupted forensics?"_ Sherlock is on the same thought line as the doctor.

John sends caution and then happiness. _"Probably."_

John brushes a hand across Sherlock's as he pretend to reach for another picture. Really, he is watching Sherlock's images as they run rampant trying to deduce.

The connection last a second but John already has an idea of where the detective is going with this case. When the doctor pulls his hand away, he stares absentmindedly at another picture, this one of her wedding ring.

_"The pathologist, the man who did her autopsy, he was her lover, secret of course. Boring."_

John sends shock and pride. _"Really?"_

_"Positive."_

John sends excitement with a mix of smug pride. _"All right, let them have it."_

"It was the forensic pathologist." Sherlock smirks, folding up the file and slapping it on Lestrade's desk.

"What?" Anderson blurts out. "It can't be, Miller is a good man."

"Is that man also not working here anymore, maybe perhaps moved to the continent?" Sherlock questions innocently.

"Well...yes...but he has family there." Anderson blabbers stupidly.

Sherlock scoffs and opens his mouth to say something. John sends a wave of caution and the detective closes his mouth. _"Nice."_

"Sherlock," Lestrade says pinching the bridge of his nose. "How can you possibly know that?"

"After all of this time Lestrade, you still ask me that question." Sherlock states sadly. "The rings, look at the rings first, I always do."

"She was having an affair, what is it with the victims of London and their affairs?" Sherlock questions out loud and John chuckles.

"Okay, but that doesn't explain why the Yard's forensic pathologist is the lover." Sally intercedes, her smile smug.

"Oh Sally," Sherlock starts looking over at her, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"John pointed out to me that the victim had the start of various bruises all over her body, her arms and legs. They are defensive bruises and based on the hand width and the height of the ones on her chest, you are looking for a man approximately 1.8 m in height, with a hand width of about 180mm give or take. I bet if you looked Miller's employment file you would find that these parameters match perfectly."

"Yeah, but so does half of Europe!" Anderson exclaims.

"Yes," Sherlock starts, really trying to hold in his sneer and he fails, "but half of Europe doesn't have access to autopsies reports, let alone the means and knowledge to pull off a murder _and_ get away with it." Sherlock is standing now, his full height straight and his stance ready, intimidating the forensic tech.

John puts a hand on Sherlock's back and directs caution and a bit of calm into the detective's mind. Sherlock's body relaxes, not visibly, not enough for any of the Yarders to notice.

"This is all circumstantial." Donovan states, throwing her hands up in the air, and Lestrade nods slowly in agreement.

"She has a datebook," Sherlock inquiries. John raises his eyebrows, rushing confusion and wonder into the genius.

 _"Oh come now, John. What successful woman in London doesn't have a datebook? Common sense."_ Sherlock scoffs petulantly and John lowers his head, trying to hide a smile

John eyes the box and Sally opens the lid, pulling out a dusty, evidence bag-wrapped diary, she hands it to John who opens the bag carefully and pulls the diary out, handing it to Sherlock.

The genius flips through the date book, muttering to himself. John sees the pages fly by in rapid motion as Sherlock catalogs the addresses and lunch dates. The detective stops thumbing through the pages, staring at a single page in front of him.

"There." Sherlock says slamming the book on the table. All of the occupants of the office loom over the blank page.

"It's blank?" Anderson says and John scans the page and notices it right away.

"It's not blank, there are initials and some numbers next to it at the bottom. E.M." John talks before Sherlock took the brief silence to jump on Anderson idiocy.

 _"What an idiot."_ Sherlock rolls his eyes again.

John sends a stream of amusement and agreement. " _I totally agree."_

"Ed Miller." Sally says quietly and Anderson glares at her for speaking the name. _  
_

"So what are the numbers?" Lestrade asks.

_"Book code."_

"It's a book code," John say out loud, at the same time Sherlock thought it. John has seen a book code before and he recognises it, plus what else could it be, really.

Sherlock stares at him impressed, John smiles sheepishly back, whilst sending a rush of smug confidence. _"That's right, I know things."_

The detective chuckles and peers into the box, his hand disappearing as the genius digs for something inside.

"Great, how do we find out which book it is?" Lestrade says, moving away from the date book and sliding into his office chair, irritated.

A slam catches the attention of the Yarders plus John. A very worn, old copy of Jane Eyre lays a top Lestrade's messy desk.

"This is the book." Sherlock states.

"How can you be sure?" Anderson questions, the man is even getting on the doctor's nerves.

"It's obvious, this book is her most prized possession, it's worn but it's a first edition, it's been read over and over again but it's be taken care of, the binding has been replaced more than once." Sherlock states, thumbing and examining the book with care before flipping open and following the code.

John reads the detective's mind but looks over the genius's shoulder for pretenses.

The first bracket of numbers find the word Edward. "Edward," John states, scribbling down the word on a scrap piece of paper.

The next, Sherlock thumbs through and finds the world Miller. "Miller," John adds to the paper.

The next bracket is the word zero. "The number zero," a scribble.

The next, two, "The number two," John states,

The next is another zero. "Another zero,"

The doctor and his detective continue the pattern as the code goes on to reveal a whole phone number, that John hypothesises is associated with the Yard.

"Do I need to explain it anymore?" Sherlock asks, flinging the book onto the desk with ease, The Yarders stare in shock at the sight, completely unbelieving at the bombshell. Not only did the genius figure out the cold case but he pointed the finger and found evidence to back it up, at one of the Yard's respected employees, even a friend to three/fifths of the people in the room.

"This was all terribly fun but I'm bored." and with that the detective stands up straight and walks out of the office with a smug smile and a _"Come along, John."_

* * *

"What in the bloody hell was that, John?" Lestrade exasperates, John looks at the DI who stares at him, along with Anderson and Donovan who gaze in bewilderment.

"Brilliant, right?" John asks, moving to the office door, following Sherlock's exit, in a less dramatic fashion of course.

"No, not that, that's usual." Sally states, "The freak is always like that." John holds his tongue, he doesn't want to snap at Donovan but he will if she keeps calling Sherlock a freak.

"I'm talking about how the both of you just solved that case together without talking." Lestrade's face is red with confusion.

Uh-oh, the conversations are so mainstream and normal that sometimes the doctor forgets they aren't speaking aloud, a rookie mistake.

"Sherlock is teaching me how to read...expressions, the way he does." John lies nonchalantly, shrugging to add conviction. The three Yarders stare, their mouths agape.

"You're turning into him?" Greg inquires.

"No, no, I'm just learning a few things, it was our test run." John adds, piling on the lies and Greg seems to relax.

"Good, for a second I thought..." The DI starts.

"Thought what?" John questions, timidly, not sure he he wants to know.

"That he could read your mind or something." John laughs, Oh Lestrade, you couldn't be anymore backwards.

"A telepath? Pssh, that's a bit cliche, don't you think?" John snickers looking around the room at the faces. Sally and Anderson join in with a chuckle while Lestrade just smirks.

"It would explain a lot, plus I don't know what to think about Sherlock anymore." The DI states, grinning.

"Neither do I Greg, neither do I." and with that John shakes the DI's hand and follows the detective out, sending waves of relief and irritation to the detective.

That was too close, way too close.

* * *

"So how do you think will they find him?" John asks the detective once the doctor catches up with him, now they are both standing outside of Scotland Yard trying to hail a cab.

_"They won't find him, John."_

The doctor sends confusion, _"Why not?"_

_"If they prove that he is the murderer, think of all the cases he worked on, ones where he was truthful."_

John sends understanding, _"Every case the man ever worked on would have to be re-opened and maybe even go through court again."_

 _"Hours and hours of man power and money the NSY doesn't have."_ John smiles sadly, the fact that a killer can go free is not exactly reassuring.

 _"It's for the best though,"_ Sherlock thoughts add. _"However, I do think that Mycroft might take care of it somehow, Greg might mention it when he is **underneath him**." _ The genius smirks mildly.

John smacks Sherlock in his arm and stalks away, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Sherlock just laughs and catches John in an embrace.

"I'm very partial to the color of your cheek, Dr. Watson."

They forget about trying to hail and cab and instead, snog in front of NSY.


	21. Do It

"Mycroft." Sherlock greets bitterly and turns his head towards the door, no doubt hearing the familiar but quiet steps of his elder brother. 

It's a Saturday and they had both been relaxing in their respective chairs, unwinding from a grueling case that just ended earlier this morning. 

Obviously, Mycroft sees this as a perfect opportunity to be a disruptive shit.

John finds himself tensing involuntarily as the politician finally enters the sitting room, his umbrella tuck against his side like usual.

He sits down on the settee wordlessly, his movements undemanding and non-threatening.

John is still feels an uneasiness course through him, he may be on good terms with Mycroft but there's still anger and resentment there. 

Instead of voicing his anger, however, he decides to just continue on with his morning. He takes a drink of his tea and picks up the newspaper. Life does not stop because of Mycroft Holmes.

Nobody says anything for a few minutes, the rustling of John's paper the only noise in the flat.

Finally, Mycroft says, "John," and shifts uncomfortably. The doctor startles, he hadn't originally thought the elder Holmes had been here for him.  

John looks up from his paper and eyes the man quizically.

"I'm here to learn about the rest of your rules." The words come out in a whisper and John just blinks in shock.

It's Sherlock who speaks next in a hiss, "Mycroft. No."

Mycroft sighs audibly and squeezes his umbrella and his knuckles turn white before he takes a deep breath and adds, "It won't be like last time, I promise."

_"Lies."_

John head shifts in Sherlock's direction for a second to nod in recognition and then faces the uncomfortable politician, watching in silent contemplation.

"Mycroft. Are you demanding? Or asking?" He says thoughtfully and sends a wave of calm and smug confusion to Sherlock. _"Hold on, I want to see this."_

"John." And, if it had been anyone other than Mycoft Holmes, John would have sworn there was whining in that last statement.

 _"This is a bad idea."_ Sherlock's thoughts emit a draft of coldness that make John mentally shiver.

He looks over at Sherlock smirks, shrugs his shoulders, and sends a wave of smug happiness. _"Yes, it probably is."_

John returns to the older man and raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"John, would you be so kind to tell me more about your.....gift?" Mycroft says reluctantly and John can see how physically restraint it took him to either roll his eyes or huff in annoyance (and it secretly makes John's insides maniacally happy).

John laughs (because he's evil like that) and the elder Holmes does scoff and turns his head away petulantly. 

"Well, since you asked so nicely." John says nonchalantly, after he had let the man stew for a bit.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft's head snaps back to looks at the doctor with a gleam in his eyes. It's gone in a second and the politician clears his throat, his face snapping back to his neutral cold gaze. 

John pretends not to notice the elder Holmes leaning forward in excitement.

However, because nothing ever gets pass Sherlock, the detective's eyes narrow as his brother's physical demeanor and John knows he won't let it be idle.

True to form, Sherlock scoffs and begins to open his mouth but John doesn't waste any time.

He sends a scolding defiance along with disapproving disappointment and then reaches across the gap between the chairs to place a hand on the detective's bare arm. He reiterates the emotion, this time more potently, and adds a hint of reluctance as if to say, _"Be nice and shut up, I want to see this."_

Sherlock's eyes snap from his brother to John's arm on his and he calms immediately, but that doesn't stop him from sending the doctor a pleading look.

 _"But, John..."_ The stormy gray eyes dilate but John remains firm, with the force of his self-control behind him, he shakes his head and pushes defiant unhappiness through the link. _"Definitely not."_

"Fine!" The detective huffs out loud. He yanks his arm out of John's grip to cross them in annoyance while he lets the chair swallow him up. 

The blond man just chuckles and rescinds his arm back into his lap.

"You have tactile connections?" Mycroft interrupts, geniuine surprise in his voice and John curses himself. How could he forget that the older Holmes is still present?

He looks over to their 'guest' and sees the politician raise an eyebrow, his eyes darting between the two of them. 

"Yes." John responds turning his body slightly to address Mycroft. 

"What did you do?" Mycroft asks, "When you touched Sherlock?"

"I calmed him down." John states vaguely.

"Calmed him down? You never said you could do that." Mycroft observes, his eyes calculating.

"Well, you never asked," John snaps, "And the last time we had this type of conversation you forced me into someone's mind for the sole benefit of the British Government. Obviously, I wasn't very keen on informing you of the aspects of my abilities." He adds bitterly and eyes Mycroft, who seems to cower his head in a uncharacteristic show of shame.

It doesn't last for very long and within seconds the other man is speaking again, all appearances of shame, or any emotions for that manner, gone in a flash. 

"Aspects? As in plural?" Mycroft says blankly and the telepath moves to answer before Sherlock interrupts.

"You have a lot to learn, brother." Sherlock chuckles before standing up in one graceful motion to find his violin. Or at least that's what John sees through the link, beside  the endless proclamations of boredom and annoyance.

"If you would start from the beginning, please." Mycroft says politely, ignoring his sibling stubborningly.

The thing is, John actually wants to trust him, he wants to put the countless screaming rows they've had behind them and maybe gain a valuable ally in his life. He's tiring of being mad at Mycroft and in turn causing turmoil for Lestrade and even Sherlock.  

He thinks for a second and decides to tell Mycroft everything. He shares all the distinctive parts of his Gift. He brushes the older man up on the white noise and the actually mind reading, while adding in the information about the tactile connections. John even tells him about the mental senses and there may even be a small smile from Mycroft when the doctor reveals the politician's chocolate and caramel scent.

At this point, there's an exaggerated huff from an otherwise surprisingly patient Sherlock, who's cradling his violin silently.

Mycroft doesn't asks for any demonstrations this time. He sits there and listens politely, much to the relief of John.

He recounts his ability to convey emotions, a part of his gift that Mycroft is intimately aware of.

John even tells the older man about the emotional code, but simplifies the basics. He opens the connection with Mycroft and shows him examples of happiness for yes and unhappiness for no. Sherlock insists, mentally, that John push irritation in the man's connection and when he does, the detective cheekily explains that its their code for Mycroft.

Predictably, the eldest Holmes doesn't deign that with a response and graciously asks for John to continue, specifically asking for more information about the code.

John is reluctant at first. He finds himself uneasy with sharing something like this with another person that isn't Sherlock. The detective, despite previous shenanigans, is oddly encouraging. Although, it seems to be on the fine line between supportive and bragging, but it makes the chat go faster. Besides if Sherlock's trusts his brother with knowing, then by all means, John can to. 

Lastly, John finishes the converstaion with the rest of the rules, explaining them as he did before and even telling Mycroft of the two new ones. John even starts with the two newest rules, the ones about negative emotions and the boundaries of his calming powers. After those, John goes right up the list. He talks about doubling up on gloves and he explains the reasons behind it, about how unprepared broken connections are painful. Then he shares the rule about keeping his abilities a secret. The last thing John shares is the limits of his Gift. He talks about previous nosebleeds and what happens if he overexerts himself.

Finally, after three and a half long hours, John finishes with an exhausted smirk. The flat is silent and the doctor can see Mycroft's brain absorbing all the information.

"Thank you John," He says after a while, "I know this must have been difficult." The politician stands up and straightens his jacket while John nods and sends a surge of relief to Sherlock.  

John stands up as well, to politely see the man out.

They're on the landing, about to walk down the steps when Mycroft stops causing John to stiffen.

"You left out rule ten." He says expectantly and the doctor laughs, a long hearty laugh and he can sense the confused amusement coming from Sherlock's bond.  

"I want to know all the rules, John." Mycroft says with an impatient and demanding tone.

John raises his eyes unimpressively and sneers, "I'm aware." He rolls his eyes, "Rule ten just doesn't apply anymore."

Mycroft raises his eyebrow in confusion before John answers, "Rule 10 states that Sherlock must never find out."

* * *

**_A week or two passes..._ **

" _We're really in trouble now."_ John thinks to himself as he watches one of the men smash Sherlock's and his mobile against the dirty cement ground. They now lay in a pile of useless bits and pieces. 

The doctor sends shame and anxiety into Sherlock. _"Shit."_

They're so screwed.

John had known they shouldn't have followed the gang into the industrial complex, it had been a bad idea from the start, especially since they hadn't even told anybody where they had been going.

But Sherlock thinks, _"Come along, John."_ and the doctor would follow him anywhere, Tescos, Angelos, a volcano, anywhere.

They're deep within one of the warehouses, staring down the barrels of several guns, enticing a slow death in the face. Volcanoes are looking better in each passing moment.

Five men, each holding a some type of gun, stand in front of John and Sherlock. The doctor and his detective have been forced on their knees whilst another two men behind them restrain them with ropes. Instead of struggling, the soldier listens to Sherlock's thoughts, following his deductions, trying to formulate a plan.

Unfortunately, the detective's thoughts are a mess and show no hopeful outcome. Sherlock looks to John in a sideways glance and if his thoughts hadn't expressed it, the look on his face certainly does.

Sherlock Holmes does not know what to do and they are completely and thoroughly outnumbered.

The leader steps forward and opens his mouth to talk and they don't have a plan.

 _"Do it."_ Sherlock's thoughts command and for a second John glances at him in confusion. He sends the questioning confusion through the link. _'Do what?"_

The detective shoots him an unimpressed look and thinks, _"Take them out."_

Realization surges through him and he doesn't hesitate. The leader, a short man, is monologuing but he ignores the cliche words and focuses. He scans the room and opens numerous links, finding each mind. Once he vaguely has eveyone connections, he pauses and thinks about the safest way to do this, mostly so he doesn't have an attack. 

One at a time would be best. He could calm each person to a certain point, enough to be disorientating. He would have to start and break each connection then at the end when they are all showing sighs of confusion, making them all sleep. Ideally, they would have idea what's going on. 

Easy enough.

As fate would have it, a sound beside the doctor suspends John's plan.

He snaps his head to the side to see the leader pushing his gun into Sherlock's neck. John's mind erupts in anger and targets the leader first. The man, a short, disgusting pudgy man straightens in confusion. John focuses slowly on him, his anger in control for a moment. The man's eyes go unfocused and John stops, he moves on to each of the other men, disorienting them.

A sudden pain in the back of John's head stops him. The force of it, knocking John forward so he face plants onto the ground, his body turning so he lands with his back to Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock exclaims out loud and John tries to roll more onto his side, through the pain in his head, which he can already feel the blood starting to flow.

"Now I'm going to ask again." The doctor hears the short man say through gritted teeth. "Why does my head feel fuzzy? What kind of voodoo tricks are you playing on me? Do I need to beat it out of your partner here to get you to tell me Sherlock?"

John, through his pain sends a shaky wave of relief to the detective. _"Thank god they don't know."_

In the daze of pain, John wonders idly why everyone assumes it's Sherlock with the super powers.

Another sudden bursting pain finds John's side abruptly, tearing him out of his wondering. John looks down awkwardly, just in time to see the blade of a shimmering knife being pulled out of his right side. John just stares in shock and pain as one of the gang members backs up, the blood dripping from the blade.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's thoughts are worried and panicked.

Blood seeps out of the doctor's side and flows freely down his face from the head wound. John knew this was a bad idea, but nonetheless the telepath sends a shaky wave of reassuring contentment to the detective. _"I'm fine. It's okay."_ The doctor writhes uncontrollably.

 _"You are a terrible liar, John."_ The detective is feeling guilty and panicked. John doesn't move, the pain in his side overtaking him, far worse than the headache throbbing painfully in his head.

"Tell me!" The pudgy man demands, pushing the gun once again into the detective's neck.

John has to do something, nobody knows where they are, there is no hope of rescue, especially not in time, with John's stab wound deep and bleeding heavily.

Nobody except John, who happens to be so angry and protective that the decision is easy.

In one swift moment, finding the seven minds, John sends one powerful wave of deep calm. The men drop rapidly, each creating a thud sound as they hit the dirt ground, not one of them knowing what hit them.

John can feel the over exertion immediately but no additional pain comes and John is confused for a second by that, before he is interrupted by the screaming of the pudgy leader.

"You are bewitched!" The man says sleepily, his arms flailing, the gun being aimed all over the place. A sudden bang erupts in the warehouse and then the man falls into his slumber.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John calls loudly, against all odds. Now his head hurts, the pain that should have happened is growing steadily and rapidly into his mind. The detective doesn't respond and John panics. He digs into the detective's mind, bypass the lilac/honey, looking only for the pain.

John almost blacks out between finding Sherlock's pain and the doctor's own agony. The soldier has to retreat quickly before the pain renders him unconscious and therefore useless. John calls for the detective again but no answer. The doctor, with as much power as he can muster rolls onto his back.

"AHHHHHH!" John screams and bites his lip. The stab wound pangs at him, the blood soaking his jumper. John finally gets into a position where he can see the detective. John screams and shouts for the detective but Sherlock doesn't move, his body is limp and John can see the blood soaking his shirt somewhere in his midsection and the doctor hopes it missed everything major.

"SHERLOCK!" John calls again. He wriggles painfully trying to get out of his binds. The rope rubs against him but John ignores it. His face winces and contorts in turmoil. It's useless. John looks around for something sharp, anything. The man that stabbed John is millimeters away, one roll and John could reach his knife laying sheathed in it's belt.

John stares at the distance with apprehension and sheer terror. This is going to hurt.

John steels himself and on the count of three he rolls himself toward the knife.

"FUCK! AHHHHHHH JESUS! SHITE!" John yells as he rolls, the pain almost blinding. John feels the beads of sweat and the flow of blood increase. He gets as close as he can to the man, laying beside him, the hands behind his back reaching for the knife, John pushing through his torture the only way a soldier could. Finally, John clutches the still bloody knife by it's hilt, pulling it out of it's casing.

"Fuck." John exclaims as he clumsily cuts himself on the blade as the doctor tries to maneuver it to cut his binds.

With painful exertion and leverage, John saws at his restraints.

Eventually, the ropes go slack. John brings his injured hand to his front, curling it against his torso.

The doctor is breathing heavily, the blood from his head wound making his vision misty and the sting in his side growing worse, not to mention the fact that his nose has now begun to bleed from the mental exertion.

The doctor is not in the best shape. John lays briefly, letting the pain overtake him, almost willing to just fall asleep, it feels so nice.

"No, Watson. Get your arse up, Sherlock needs you." John yells at himself and after two attempts he stands up feebly, his movements are jerky and weak. He grips his side, trying to staunch the blood as he moves.

In four steps he is next to the detective.

"Sherlock." John exhales and falls to the ground next to the genius, almost falling on top of him. Sherlock doesn't move, John's hands go to work. He immediately lifts Sherlock's shirt and finds the wound, the blood soaking everything. John clamps his hands to the wound, pushing hard, trying to get the blood to stop. The contact sends John painfully into Sherlock's mind. The detective is full of pain, but no thoughts come. Through the suffering, John digs down and finds calm memories and bring them forward without hesitation.

The doctor is going to collapse from his pain, from the exhaustion and mental limitations and then Sherlock will die.

What can he do?

A small idea pops into John's mind, a crazy and maybe impossible idea.

Mycroft.

The telepath wastes no time and breaks the painful connection with Sherlock, keeping the pressure on his stomach. The genius needs help immediately.

John concentrates hard, not even sure if he can link their brains this far away. John tells himself that the range could be a Holmsian attribute and with that hope, John fills his mind with Mycroft's senses and looks for his familiar connection.

Against all odds, and John's own doubts, the doctor finds the politician, how he does it is incomprehensible and for another day, but right now John lets the chocolate and caramel combination fill him.

The politician's mind is rapidly playing as usual, but John slows down, the rubber band tensing.

John lists forward in agony, his mind and body shutting down.

 _"No, not yet."_ John yells at himself.

 _"John. What are you doing?"_ Mycroft thoughts sting horribly and the force of them make John's vision blur. John continues regardless.

John sends a wave of unadulterated pain and helplessness into the elder Holmes, hoping the Mycroft remembers their conversation of emotional codes.

 _"Are you hurt?"_ Mycroft's thoughts ask and John almost cries in relief. John mindlessly presses harder onto Sherlock, blood pooling beneath the two of them.

John sends happiness and then more pain and helplessness to back it up.

"Happiness is yes, right?" John sends a wave of euphoria and happiness and pride, any emotion to make Mycroft understand.

 _"Okay, Okay, Is Sherlock with you?"_ Happiness and the more pain.

 _"He is hurt."_ John send happiness again then a wave of pain that measured out what Sherlock is feeling.

 _"Where are you?"_ John sends happiness to convey that he knows where they are at, but how does he inform Mycroft the GPS coordinates over emotions, so instead he sends irritation.

 _"Okay, I know, yes and no questions."_ John sends a wave of happiness.

 _"John, I can see you and Sherlock headed west on a street, towards warehouses."_ John almost explodes in relief and he sends that relief to Mycroft. John careens forward again before he catches himself, John sends a painful impatience. _"Hurry up, Mycroft, I won't last and neither will Sherlock."_

 _"You are in one of those warehouses?"_ John sends happiness for clarification.

 _"Which one?"_ John send irritation again.

 _"Sorry, from the right, in happiness, which number warehouse are you in?"_ John focuses, as they entered they area, there were five warehouses, they went into the one in the middle, the third one. John sends one burst of happiness and then another burst and then the next before going silent.

 _"The third warehouse?"_ John sends happiness.

There is nothing left, adrenaline is so long gone that John is running purely on force of will and it's slipping. John's hands are losing their force

 _"John, you are fading. Why?"_ John just sends a brief stream of pain.

 _"Stay conscious John. I'm almost there."_ John sends relief and then tries calling for the detective. John sends panic to Mycroft, he can feel the connection getting weaker. His hands slip and John falls on top of the detective, he screams in pain and subconsciously sends some into the link. John can't get up, he is stuck in a wave of pain and complete exhaustion. His force of will is gone.

 _"John, hang on. I'm coming._ " Panic emits from the politician.

Mycroft's panicked thoughts are the last thing John feels before succumbing to the cliched black. Anything, John thinks, feels better than the endless pain.

* * *

Mycroft runs into the warehouse, a flank of armed men behind him.

"John? Sherlock?" The politician bellows. Mycroft can no longer feel the poking of his brain and is thinking the worse.

The elder Holmes hears the sirens of ambulances (that Mycroft thought ahead and called en route) pull into the complex.

The warehouse is a maze but Mycroft has the blueprints and runs for the most likely place the doctor and his younger brother would be held.

Mycroft pushes a door open and runs into the only open space in the entire warehouse. The politician freezes. Bodies lay everywhere, all still, all of them without evidence of a wound.

 _"John is a lot more powerful than I thought."_ Mycroft thinks to himself. As his employees fan out around Mycroft, the politician searches for the people that matter.

He finds them in the middle of the room. Blood is everywhere, trails of it tell exactly how John drug himself, then rolled himself and then stood moving towards the detective.

Mycroft runs over to the unconscious bodies.

John lays on top of the detective, both men soaked with red.

"Here." Mycroft commands to his employees, pulling John off of Sherlock and placing him flat. John remains motionless as does the detective.

Paramedics are next to Mycroft in an instant, the politician stands up and watches from a far as each man has their own set of paramedics, their hands all over John and Sherlock. An unconscious scream erupts from the doctor and Mycroft leans down next to John.

"John, John can you hear me?" Mycroft calls, careful not to touch the man. John writhes and struggles as the paramedic jumps around his body, putting pressure on the knife wound. Through all of this, John doesn't answer and he writhes and screams each time he is touched.

A memory hits Mycroft, one where John is talking of latex gloves and broken tactile connections. Mycroft extends his hand out abruptly, catching on of the paramedics wrist in his grip.

"Sir?" The paramedic huffs in surprise, gently pulling her grip away. The other paramedics working on John have since stopped and are watching the exchange with tension.

"All of you need to triple up in gloves." The politician commands, leaving no room for argument. He lets go of the wrist and watches as each of the paramedics comply through a haze, each reaching into their medic bag and quickly putting on more latex gloves. Now, when John is touched, he doesn't scream and his face doesn't contort in agony, instead the doctor twitches slightly. Mycroft hopes it is enough.

Soon the two men are on stretchers and escorted through the warehouse and to ambulances.

Mycroft ignores the littered bodies around him and the potential bureaucratic pile of bollocks he'll have to deal with later and follows the medics out.

Finally, they reach the surface and Mycroft breaths in relief, he gazes as the men are loaded.

A presence beside him doesn't even jostle the politician, as he watches the cars drive away, their sirens blaring there lights illuminated the street.

Not until he hears words does the elder Holmes act.

"Sir, the car is over here." Anthea says gently.

Without responding, Mycroft, his suit bloodied, runs to the sedan and they immediately take off towards the hospital, his umbrella resting against his restless knees, twisting the fabric with anxiety, giving anything to here his brother's voice or even John's intruding emotions.


	22. Dreams

Mycroft is diligent and determined. He follows the detective and his boyfriend throughout the hospital, pulling 'it's a matter of national security' out of his pocket every time someone gives him a look.

St. Barts is a teaching school, so it's operation rooms hold overlooks for learning opportunities. Mycroft stands in one of them now, the hospital staff finally leaving him alone. He stares down at the bloodied sight, his face neutral but his insides a mixture of anxiety and apprehension.

Mycroft had just come from Sherlock's surgery, the detective's wound is, thankfully, not life threatening. The leader of the gang happened to miss everything major in Sherlock's midsection. The genius is safe, and it's all thanks to John, who with the pressure of the doctor's hands, Sherlock loss a lot less blood than he would have if John hadn't been around.

The doctor more or less, saved the detective life. It definitely isn't the first time, nor would it be the last.

They anticipated the young genius to be in surgery for another hour or so. Once the politician was certain that Sherlock was safe, Mycroft sought out to find John in his operation room.

The doctor seems worse off, in many ways. The elder Holmes looks down at the sight, blood is everywhere, drying on John's face, dripping down from his head wound, still attached to the bunched up clothes laying in the corner, their rips and fabric sheered from being cut off the ex-soldier.

John looks so small as the surgeons dig into their patient, suturing and fixing up the blond man. The knife blade ruptured the base of the spleen, making John's recovery and chances a lot more dangerous.

Not to mention the physical exertion John had to go through with a knife wound. The doctors are worried about the telepath's concussion, fearing that there are complications because of John's unconscious state. Mycroft had to insist, with an unsurpassing amount of fervor to not worry about the head wound and focus on repairing John's body.

The surgeons are reluctant but the surgery is going well, despite the fact that John has to have his spleen removed. Which takes precedent over John's concussion that Mycroft knows, from the conversation weeks ago about the side effects of mental exertion, is not really a concussion. However, the surgeons don't have to know that.

A sudden beeping in the room interrupts Mycroft's thoughts. He stares down at the operation. Machines are beeping and spouting alarm. The surgeons and nurses are frantic, one of them pumping onto John's torso.

John Watson just went into cardiac arrest.

Mycroft is forced to count the seconds with worry.

One. A nurse brings out defibrillator paddles, the whirring of the charge warning the other occupants of the impending electric current.

Two. The zap echoes the room, but John's heart doesn't start.

Three. The surgeons are yelling chaotically as the paddles charge again.

Four. Another zap.

Five. The beeping of the machine starts again and Mycroft lets in a struggled gasp. John's heart beat is faint but definite. Mycroft sighs in relief and hopes that the doctor can pull through, for Sherlock's sake, the detective won't be the same if his telepath doesn't make it.

The politician hangs his head in despair as he watches the surgeons continue the operation.

* * *

The doctor and his detective's stay in the hospital is long and tedious.

On the first day, Sherlock wakes, full of morphine and demanding for the doctor unsurprisingly, all through a drug induced haze. The younger man's wound healing but with considerable amount of pain, but through it all Sherlock only utters one word to whoever will listen. "John."

Mycroft wonders secretly how many mental callings the detective is emitting, hoping that John would response.

The doctor can't respond, he is in a worse state. Although the knife wound is healing and so far, no infections have started which in turn, are causing the doctors to be hopeful. Yet, John remains in a coma, or as Sherlock adamantly calls it, a deep unconscious slumber, even though the name implies John could be woken easily, which is obviously not the case.

At the end of the first day, Sherlock has to sedated because his callings for John and his thrashing and struggling when he the doctor doesn't response. His reaction threatens to pull stitches and one of the nurses comes away with a decent black eye.

All Mycroft can do is watch, in a masked sympathy.

* * *

The second day, Sherlock sleeps over twelve hours, due to the sedation and the morphine, which doses grows higher and higher as Sherlock is able to fight through it easier than most.

Finally at the end of the second day, Sherlock wakes and is responsive, demanding Mycroft to see John, who has to decline.

Just as midnight tolls, nurses find Sherlock in the doctor's room regardless.

* * *

As much pain and agony the detective is in, he spends his waking hours devoted to being next to John, or devising schemes where he can accomplish that task.

On the third day, Sherlock tries the ice water. Yet, still John does not wake, in fact nothing good comes of it, only a severely pissed off hospital staff and John's body temperature dropping down, two things that are not conducive to John's recovery.

The third day turns into the fourth and then the fifth and eventually six days pass and Sherlock has yet to see the doctor awake. Sherlock grows more and more anxious as the hours tick by.

* * *

So here the detective sits, on the sixth day. The genius has been released, a mere hour ago, in which he signed the forms and then planted himself, a free, albeit sore man, in the plastic hospital chairs, waiting for John to wake.

Normally, Sherlock would have probably been released earlier in the week but the doctors had to keep the detective longer than necessary. Even if the genius is brilliant, he knows nothing about healing time and he would devote every waking hour, either by John's beside (without permission) or creating said schemes to bypass the nurses, he did this instead of focus on his own healing.

To Sherlock, his recovery is irrelevant, John only matters and he would spend all of his time next to the older man, regardless of what the staff did about it.

And Sherlock is great at picking the locks of handcuffs, especially standard issue hospital handcuffs.

Finally, Sherlock's doctor, a tall, young man with deep brown hair, much like the detective in a way, decides to release the genius, claiming he isn't worth the hassle.

After all the fuss, handcuffs and threats from Mycroft and release, Sherlock is able to be where he wanted to be for the past six days, next to John.

Yet, John still sleeps in his 'not coma'.

Sherlock has tried everything, besides the physical, ice and yelling. The detective has gripped the doctor so hard and trudge up warm and happy memories in hope that they will bring John out of his, oh hell, let's call it what it is, his coma.

While he does this, Sherlock lets his mind wander, except it's not about puzzles or cases, its about John, always John.

The detective remembers the hours of when he first awoke to the hospital, his mid-section ached and hurt and the morphine fogged his mind. All he knew was John, and the lack of the doctor's presence in the room.

Sherlock didn't calm down until Mycroft made an appearance, and by that time the nurses refused to go into the room for fear of a bedpan getting thrown.

Mycroft had strode in, Sherlock with the bedpan already in his hand, the detective let the object fall once Mycroft made his appearance known.

"Where is John?" Sherlock had said through gritted teeth. Partly out of frustration and partly because his morphine was due for a dosage.

"He's in a coma, Sherlock." Mycroft had replied his umbrella twirling with ease, although inside, Sherlock can see the cold turmoil of the events.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, he didn't remember much and what he does remember is pieces, all jumbled and not really putting themselves together.

"I believe he exerted himself too much." Mycroft replied simply, flexing his hand on the umbrella's hilt.

Sherlock seemed to think it over, "How bad?" The detective asked.

"Bad." Mycroft responded. "He contacted me you know?" The politician says, moving to sit on a plastic chair beside Sherlock's bed. The detective stares back, his lips in a thin line.

"It's a very strange feeling, the Doctor inside your head." Mycroft stated.

"Yes, I'm aware." Sherlock snapped back involuntarily. His brother always brings out the worse in him.

"You are going to be the death of that man, Sherlock." The elder Holmes deadpanned.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock started.

"I'm merely saying dear brother," Mycroft held a hand up to silence the genius, "that you must be careful, he is very loyal. He crawled, rolled, and walked all whilst bleeding from a wound to his spleen. Not to mention the fact that he wiped out seven men, which I'm sure his mind shouldn't be able to handle, he had an episode when he wiped out my five at the manor."

"He did all this, remained conscious enough to stop you from bleeding out and against all odds contacted me, which I didn't know his power was that strong." Mycroft stated.

"Sherlock, that man is too loyal for his own good. I don't know anything about his ability and I'm sure you don't know much more but it will be a miracle if he wakes up."

Throughout Mycroft's entire monologue, Sherlock glares, his mouth slightly parted in shock and turmoil, agony and guilt.

"You are right Mycroft, you don't know anything about his gift." Sherlock says snidely. "John is a lot stronger than either one of us knows and he needs rest, he is just sleeping."

"Denial doesn't suit you brother." The politician stated and stood up, gripping his umbrella.

"He loves you, you know." the elder Holmes said walking out of the room.

"I know. I love him too." Sherlock whispers into the empty room.

The irregular sound of beeping pulls Sherlock out of his memories to look up at the doctor's machines. A flashing yellow is being shown. The detective panics slightly and stands up to survey John, to make sure the detective is still breathing.

The door opens, a nurse walks in, smiling warmly at the detective. Someone new then, all of John's nurses avoid the genius like the plague.

With a few buttons pushed and a squeeze of John's IV, she exits and the yellow flashing has goes away with her. Sherlock deduces that John's medicine needed a change.

Sherlock grips the doctor's hand and sits back down in the chair, pain overwhelming him, both physical and emotional.

So, six days, an ice water plunge, numerous amounts of mental warmings and John has yet to wake.

Sherlock is frustrated and exhausted and in pain. Lots of pain, mental and physical.

* * *

Hours later and Sherlock has yet to move, Mycroft has come and gone, reminding Sherlock to take his medicine or chastising the younger Holmes about not going home.

How could Sherlock leave? John is in a coma and if the last hours, hell days have been any consolation, he might not wake up and that thought scares the detective more than anything.

Sherlock is in the process of trudging up new and warm memories for John, memories that Sherlock has long since deleted, or at least attempted to, considering that they are still present in his hard drive.

One such memory is when Sherlock is a boy, maybe ten. The genius is enamored with his new microscope, it's sleek black surface shining with ease and the knobs are easy to turn. Sherlock spends the entire day inspecting various leaves and anything he can get his hands on in the house. This is one of Sherlock's favorite childhood memories, the only time in his younger years where he has felt happy, truly happy.

The detective feels the happiest from the memory and he gets engrossed in it, so much so that he didn't know the differences in breathing coming from the doctor in his hospital bed.

"Mmmm..tha's 'ice." The doctor slurs out weakly. Sherlock's head shoots up so fast that the memory leaves. John frowns slightly as the warm and happy leave him.

"John! John!" Sherlock calls, standing up and leaning over the hospital bed. John doesn't respond, his features lax. Sherlock's face falls, he must have imagined it, and just as the detective is about to sit down out of defeat, John's mouth twitches.

"John. John. Open your eyes." Sherlock demands, wasting no time to grip the doctor's face and feel John's stubble.

With great effort John opens his eyes, their are at half mast but Sherlock will take it.

* * *

_"John."_ The doctor smiles at the longing in those words. He looks up at the detective looming over him.

"Hey." The doctor says, his throat dry and cracking from disuse. Sherlock is gone suddenly and the doctor panics, mostly at the abruptness. He debates calling for the detective but Sherlock is back and in front of him again.

 _"Drink this."_ Sherlock's thoughts command and a plastic cup is thrust at his lips. John obliges and feels relief as the cool water relaxes his throat.

"Than' you." The doctor acknowledges. John shifts but a sudden dull stab of pain stops him. The doctor stills suddenly and one of his hands flies to his side. John looks down at his side, it's covered with a hospital gown and the soldier is tempted to rip a hole through so he can see the wrapping job.

"You were stabbed." Sherlock says sadly.

John eyes snap up immediately and look at the detective. "I don't remember."

John looks from the detective to himself and shakes his head. The doctor closes his eyes and tries to remember the last memory.

"The last thing I remember is walking into a warehouse." John says, "Did Mycroft kidnap me again?" The doctor asks, any other situation and the statement would have been met with a lighthearted snort but Sherlock is silent.

 _"No."_ The thoughts are anxious and full of concern.

"How many?" John questions.

 _"Seven."_ Sherlock states, imagining what it would have been like if he were conscious and witness John taking out seven men with his mind.

"I blacked out then." John says, disinterested, shifting again, this time more slowly. It wouldn't be the first time he had no recollection of a mental connection.

 _"Blacked out?"_ Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Hasn't happened a lot recently." John adds, turning faintly onto his side finally, his head turned fully towards Sherlock, holding the detective's gaze. The doctor's muscles are sore with disuse and it makes moving tiring and painful.

 _"Or ever."_ Sherlock thinks sarcastically.

"A couple of times in the beginning." John remarks, a yawn interrupting his point. Exhaustion is clouded the doctor's mind slightly.

 _"John,"_ Sherlock starts seriously. " _Go to sleep."_

"How long have I been sleeping so far?" The doctor questions, exhaustion from just waking up seeming to take its toll. The doctor closes his eyes but sends waves of happiness and encouragement to the detective. _"Yes, I'm tired but keep talking anyway."_

 _"Six days."_ Sherlock's thoughts are anxious, concerned, relieved, and sad. John picks up on all the emotions and sucks them in.

John sends a wave of contentment and shame. " _I'm fine now, not hurt, I'm sorry that I worried you."_

_"You aren't allowed to do it again."_

John sends a rush of happiness and then feelings of love. _"Anything for you, I love you."_

Then the doctor falls asleep.

* * *

The hot Afghanistan sun is sweltering and unwavering. John pulls at his collar absentmindedly, staring into the expansive desert, waiting for the roll of casualties to stroll in.

The whir of an engine grabs John's attention and the doctor bolts towards it. The van, with a giant red cross painted shrewdly on it's side, tears into the compound. John wrenches the doors open before the driver can put the pseudo ambulance into park.

The doctor jumps into the car, coming face to face with three stretcher-ridden men, all bleeding profusely. John moves from one man to the other, not even bothering to put on gloves, instead he uses his ability to read their minds. He accesses their pain level and their memories. Two out of the three are in shock and unresponsive. John finds out their names and their birthdays. He then precedes to dig deeper and relive how each soldier got his wound.

"The man was hit by a sniper," John's commanding voice booms, "the bullet is a through and through just above the heart." John states as orderlies grab the man's stretcher and take him into the tented operation room.

John moves onto the next man, also unresponsive. He places a hand on the man's exposed torso. "This man need blood, he was in the area of an exploded mine. He has shrapnel in his legs, arms, and torso." John yells to the next pair of orderlies, who take the man away.

The third man is mumbling, his face is covered with a makeshift bandage, only his mouth is visible. John latches on to his connection but it's silent. John stares blankly at the man, reaching hard into his brain looking for memories, nothing responds. Instead, the strong smell of blood meets John. The doctor reels back but his hand is stuck, like something glued it to the man's chest. John tries to yank his hand away but it won't budge. The doctor starts to panic fiercely.

"Watson." The man says and John stops. He stares down at the soldier with panic. The man continues to mumble so John leans closer, intrigued and curious about the injured soldier who knows his name.

As John leans further and further in, the man's mumblings become more coherent and John senses familiarity with the voice.

"Johnny boy." The Irish voice says and John panics, the blood integrated with his mind and memories. The doctor freaks out and will another pull yanks his hand free, running from the vehicle with shameless haste. He bolts out the back of the ambulance but desert or sand doesn't greet him. The dream has changed and John is greeted with the insides of a warehouse. Eight men occupy the huge space, six of them in a circle surrounding the remaining two.

One of them, John recongnises instantly.

"Sherlock." John screams, running towards the detective, the ambulance long forgotten. John barges through the circle of men with exertion, the men are solid, barely moving from their spots. John has to squeeze in between two of the circle men to get in.

The doctor immediately throws himself at Sherlock. The detective is ignoring him. John wraps his hands around the detective's neck and cries into him, images of the man who mentally smelled of blood terrorising John's thoughts.

A sudden bang startles John. The smell of gunpowder pollutes the air and John turns his head to see the other man in the circle. A short pudgy excuse of man and John has the slightest sense of Deja Vu.

John feels Sherlock go slack in his arms. The doctor's head snaps back to the detective who is falling away from the soldier, blooding soaking the area around his abdomen.

"Sherlock!" John calls, guiding the detective down onto the concrete. "Sherlock!"

The doctor's hands are all over Sherlock's, trying to stop the damage. Confusion, fear, anxiety, and horror flash alternatively in John's mind.

John cups the detective's cheeks but no connection happens. No warmth of lilac and honey, no smarmy thoughts. Cold, empty blankness. Tears trek down John's eyes.

"SHERLOCK!" John screams and the detective opens his eyes, looking straight at the doctor.

"Sherlock, I can't hear you." The soldier cries.

"I know." Sherlock responds unmoving. His body going limp, his breathing stopping.

"SHERLOCK!" John calls gripping the detective all over, not letting the man die. Tears falling from his face, Sherlock's crimson insides staining his fingers.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Dr. Watson." A slimy voice calls out and John turns towards the pudgy leader, anger, resentment, fury towards the man splay across John's face.

"Say hello to Sherlock for me." A sudden bang echoes in the warehouse and John falls.

* * *

"SHERLOCK!" John screams and with a gasp, the doctor bolts upright. He can't breath, the panic and the grief immobilising all of his inward workings. His eyes are open but unseeing.

He vaguely feels hands around him. The doctor is sobbing and his emotions are all over the place.

 _"John. Calm down."_ Sherlock thoughts invade and John flinches away. He shouldn't be able to hear the detective.

 _"It was just a dream. You are fine. You are safe. I've got you."_ The thoughts repeat over and over again and John realises that none of it was real. The doctor's eyes focus and they find the detective. Sherlock is on the bed with him, rocking the both of them with ease while John sobs uncontrollably.

John tries to speak but he hiccups and chokes on the words. Instead, he sense a wave of grief, dread, shame, and pain. _"I thought you were dead."_

 _"It's okay, I'm here."_ Sherlock's thoughts response.

"Sher-Sherlock." John hiccups and the detective grips the doctor tighter.

"It's okay, John it was just a dream." The detective says out loud, his words soothing.

John just nods feebly, trying to get his breathing in control.

"I remember the warehouse." John states weakly, "I think Moriarty was involved."


	23. Bristol

"Sherlock." John calls entering the flat. The doctor is exhausted. It's been about a week and half since the stint in the hospital and the doctor is steadily growing stronger, physically and mentally. His muscles are just getting their strength back after John's stint in a coma.

However, it's the detective who is acting strange. Weirder than normal, ever since John came back to the flat from the hospital, the detective has delved into his work with great enthusiasm.

That, however is not the weird part, that's normal, the strangeness is the fact that Sherlock is attempting to do the cases and the chases all by himself and hasn't once ask for John help or opinions.

If the doctor is honest with himself, it kind of hurts it makes John feel unwanted, not to mention the fact that Sherlock has insisted upon being quiet, physically and mentally.

So, John has been tramping around London for the past two hours, doing the shopping and errands and not once has Sherlock said anything to keep him company. It kind of makes the doctor miss Sherlock a little bit. The detective is always in John's head, and now that the doctor brings attention to it, it seems overbearingly creepy.

Who is John kidding? He loves it when the detective is there and always available, spouting out random facts or simple beckoning the doctor. John misses it, all of it.

When he walks up the flat stairs, into the sitting room, calling for the detective, he hopes to god that the genius responds mentally.

No such luck, in fact, the detective doesn't respond at all, much to disappointment of John. The doctor rounds the corner and moves into the kitchen, calling once more for the younger man before deciding that Sherlock has left, once again with John, probably on some chase throughout London.

Now that's got John into a decent sulk.

John throws out the only ammunition he has, the emotional code.

John and Sherlock have been together for a year, yes it's been a year, one year in exactly five days. 

In that time frame, there is one thing John knows that Sherlock will respond to, sex. Now, whether the detective response to it negatively or positively is a whole other story, considering that most of the time, Sherlock is case focused and that means he will be abstinent. Despite that, John has always gotten the detective to respond, even if it is a rejection.

So, John uses the only thing he knows will make the detective respond. He sends a huge wave of randiness into the genius and the doctor doesn't stop until Sherlock responds.

Now, some may argue that this is abusing the rules. Technically its not, the rules only state issues with negative feelings and the boundaries of calming emotions, it doesn't state anything about manipulation through extreme horny waves to make the a boyfriend break his mental barrier of silence.

Seconds, that's all it takes before Sherlock is screaming in John's head.

 _"Johnathan."_ Sherlock screams and John shivers. Sherlock only say the doctor's full name when he is extremely miffed. Mission Accomplished.

The doctor transmits longing and smugness. _"I win and I miss you."_

The detective doesn't respond so John sends another surge of randy feelings, causing the detective to open his barriers again.

 _"John. I'm terribly busy."_ Sherlock's thoughts are firm and full of frustration but the detective doesn't stop.

Then John has a sudden thought, he pulls out his mobile, wanting to get the question right.

_How far away are you? - JW_

_"Far, Bristol."_ Sherlock thoughts are abruptly sheepish, almost like he is afraid of the doctor's reaction.

And he should be, John has never typed so seriously on a mobile before.

_BRISTOL! How the hell can you hear me in Bristol, that's like 200 kilometers away. JW_

John is in shock, he knew the connection is strong and that Sherlock is quirky and his mind only furthers John's proof of said quirkiness but Bristol is way outside of London. How can the detective be so far away. _  
_

_"201.16 technically."_

_Sherlock! -JW_

_How is this possible? - JW_

_"You have been getting more familiar with my connection and I'm getting use to you in brain. Considering all of the quirks and anomalies that my brain has in results of your ability. I would say that we are gaining distance because the connection is apart of us and our personalities."_

_Yeaaaahhhh, thanks for clearing that up - JW_

_"Don't be an idiot. I merely saying that the connection has become a part of us now and I'm sure the range will be ever expanding."_

Well, that's a scary thought.

_But Bristol? -JW_

_"Bristol is a part of the 'ever expanding' concept."_ Sherlock's thoughts are cheeky and full of annoyance.

_Hang on, what are you doing in Bristol? - JW_

_"Getting randy apparently."_ Sherlock's thinks snidely. It's John turn to be sheepish. _"I'm obviously on a case John."_

_Shut up, you haven't said anything to me in days. - JW_

_"So you decide to manipulate me with emotions, that's actually kind of impressive John. Besides your statement is false, we talked this morning."_

_That's not what I mean and you know it- JW._

_"Are my thoughts any less clear?"_

_No, just as crystal as if you were standing next to me. - JW_

_"Fascinating."_

_We need to talk when you get back.- JW_

The doctor is angry, furious with the detective, part of him is angry that Sherlock ran off to Bristol without telling anyone and another part of John is angry that Sherlock didn't invite him. John is hurt and feels unwanted.

 _"I'm doing it to protect you."_ Sherlock's thought is quiet in admittance.

John sends a defiant smug confidence. _"I'm not helpless, I don't need protection."_

 _"Yes, you do."_ Sherlock states and quiets the connection, not even giving into John's waves of horny feelings.

* * *

Sherlock walks into the flat tiptoeing, he knows that he is in some sort of trouble even though the detective's motivations are sound and completely logical, if only John could see that.

The connection silence is a mere conscious effort, it doesn't hurt the genius or hinder Sherlock's abilities, it's merely a decision that the detective makes and his mind obeys, silencing his thoughts to John's prying gift.

Although, if Sherlock is honest, he misses sharing his feelings, what little he consciously thinks about, and he is actually missing John's opinions and comments on how brilliant the detective is at deductions.

It is, however, for John's best interest, now that Sherlock is actively searching for Moriarty in the midst of England. The doctor cannot know, it would suspend Sherlock's inquires of some of England's low level criminals, something the detective needs to do to protect John, to protect his doctor.

The flat is quiet, the evening has long since turned into early morning and Sherlock suspects the doctor is sleeping in their bed.

Sherlock, the insomniac that he is, feels completely awake, his mind alternating between locations of possible Moriarty hideouts, new experiments and John. The detective is rather ashamed to admit how much of the his brain is devoted to John Watson.

Sherlock enters the sitting room, intent on going right for his violin when a soft noise stops him. The detective's head snaps towards the settee. John lays on it, his body draped lazily and comfortably. The doctor's jumper has ridden up, display his taunt abdomen, John's laboured hands resting comfortably on his chest, his lungs inflating and exhaling with precise movements.

The detective stares at the sight, the gorgeous blond who is on his couch, sleeping, the genius deducing that John had tried to wait up for Sherlock and feel asleep.

Sherlock forgets the violin and has a new plan.

The younger man stalks over to John and kneels beside him. Sherlock runs a hand through John's mussed hair, causing the doctor to lean into the touch subconsciously.

"Sherlock." John exhales in his sleep and the detective smiles. Sherlock cups a hand to John's cheek and feels the pin prick against his mind that comes along with the tactile link. The bond is quiet, mostly because John isn't pushing thoughts, but occasionally, emotions in John's dreams will push through.

Right now, as John breathes Sherlock's name again, a tiny surge of anxiety and fear ripple through Sherlock, sending the detective on edge and feeling the unsuspected and irrational fear propel him into action.

The detective pulls up potent happy memories, ever since the soldier's nightmare in the hospital, Sherlock has devoted his conscious nights making John's dreams disappear by controlling the emotions the doctor feels. So far, it's worked all the time and Sherlock can see the beginning of John's nightmares.

The younger man curses himself for staying in Bristol too long and immediately pushes the potent memories into John, hoping he isn't too late to calm the doctor out of his plaguing nightmares.

John trembles slightly when Sherlock puts another hand onto the older man's neck, pushing his lilac/honey pair and happy memories of his childhood (what little there are) and more happy memories of Sherlock solving his first official case.

The detective feels a random bout of contentment being pushed through John's subconscious and for once, the detective can't decipher it, the genius wonders if the doctor is trying to communicate that he is fine or if the feeling is a result of a good dream.

The genius is actually puzzled.

Sherlock doesn't remain puzzled very long because John's eyes are suddenly open, his body pushing up against Sherlock's leaning form.

The detective falls back in surprise with a thud, the doctor had no evidence of being out of his dream state.

John grips his knees tightly, looking towards the windows of Baker Street, his gaze unfocused and his face blank.

"John?" Sherlock says out loud, looking at the site curiously from the floor.

The soldier turns his head and then lowers it to the floor.

"Sher-Sherlock?" The doctor asks hesitantly, blinking a few times and shaking his head. The genius stands and is by John's side in no time.

_"What is it? What's wrong?"_

John shakes his head, he doesn't know what's wrong. His dream was confusing, it was full of blood and then the younger Holmes had been there and Moriarty and John couldn't handle it. Then he started to feel calm about it and occasionally, Sherlock would be seven or eighteen or a different age, changing in front of John's flummoxed eyes. The criminal mastermind would laugh at each change and comment with nasty, degrading remarks and John was forced to watch, helpless, and feel calm and happy about it.

The dream is lingering with John, the calm fading and the fear and anxiety that should normally take place is creeping in with sinister and calculated movements.

_"John."_

"I-I don't know." John says truthfully, his confusion real and terrifying. The doctor stares at Sherlock with deep eyes, the irises dilated with emotion and lingering effects of his dream.

 _"Was it Moriarty's dream again?"_ Sherlock's face is a mask of concerned worry and John finds himself lost in it, the liquid smoke of his eyes and the expressions that only the doctor has the privilege of seeing.

"No...I mean yes." John states confused, his thoughts playing tricks on his emotions, the doctor hangs in his head into his hands and lets out a shaky breath, willing the faint smell of blood to go away. "It was different."

 _"Different how?"_ Sherlock places a hand onto John's shoulder, a warm and comforting gesture.

However, the doctor shakes his head, he can't say it out loud, Sherlock changing ages and John completely helpless, it's too much.

Instead, John changes the subject.

"I should be angry with you." The doctor remarks quietly and bluntly, lifting his head up slightly, looking at Sherlock.

"John-" Sherlock starts, unclasping his hand from John's shoulder, afraid the doctor is too angry for touching of any kind.

"I'm not. I should be, but I'm not." The soldier exhales, his honesty tiring. It is truthful, John isn't angry or furious at Sherlock, he understands why the detective did it and even though it hurts and makes John feel unwanted, the doctor would have done the same thing, anything to protect Sherlock.

Sherlock stares in confusion. _"Why not?"_

John doesn't answer, his own thoughts reeling and trying to be honest without letting his true feelings play on his face.

The doctor isn't successful, Sherlock sees the longing and the relief and the turmoil radiate off of John's eyes and mouth.

 _"It was never about me leaving without telling you, or even about keeping silent. You feel unwanted."_ The detective grimaces as the thought comes together.

John just turns his head away from the genius, his face grim and overbearingly unmasked.

"You know that's not true right?" Sherlock asks and John turns his head back at the baritone trill.

"I know," says John simply and Sherlock, to prove a point, grabs John's exposed wrist and brings up memories of love and adoration. All memories of Sherlock happy in John's presence and various memories of John making the detective proud.

The doctor's eyes remain closed as he watches the memories and their emotions float around his head and he starts to feel calm, even smiling at the memories of their first kiss surface.

"It's for your own good." Sherlock adds quietly, gripping the doctor's chin, making John open his eyes to meet the younger Holmes.

John yanks his wrist away from Sherlock, the calming feeling dissipating and John's anxiety and anger suddenly coming to the forefront.

"I know!" John yells suddenly, standing up in the process. The detective stands abruptly too just as John moves towards the kitchen.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's mind starts, as the detective follows John into the kitchen, already hearing the small noises of the kettle boiling.

"I'm not helpless, Sherlock." John says, whirling around when he hears the footsteps of the younger man enter the tile floor. "How do you think it makes me feel? That you are all around London and I'm not there to help. What if something bad happens and I'm not there?" John yells, gripping the counter until his knuckles are white, the unspoken question lingering between them. _What if you are dying, and I'm not there?_

 _"I thought you said you weren't angry?"_ Sherlock's thoughts are snide and the genius raises an eyebrow.

John shakes his head. Sherlock is right, John wasn't angry, before falling asleep on the settee, the doctor had spent the majority of the night dealing with his emotions and his reasons, trying to be diplomatic and empathic.

It worked until a certain consulting detective decided to flaunt his self-righteousness in front of him. Now John is suddenly furious, angry with how Sherlock is going about chasing down criminals, angry that Sherlock is being reckless.

The doctor doesn't answer, his own emotions out of whack, plus they really don't need to wake up Mrs. Hudson with another domestic, and if John doesn't get his temper in control, they will wake up the whole bloody street with their yelling.

John takes deep breaths and turns away from the detective, forcing his eyes closed and his body to relax.

Silence encases the small kitchen, floating around the two bodies, causing a restricting tension and overwhelming anxiety.

_"John, I'm not sorry about not asking you to go with me to Bristol or any of the other cases. I believe it is for your protection. I can't stressed that enough."_

John snorts but doesn't move. "I know, I don't expect you to be." John sighs with resignation and defeat. The anger slowly leaving him, fatigue and despair staying in it's place.

 _"I am sorry, however, about how you misinterpreted it."_ John can feel the detective moving further into the tiled room and placing himself mere centimeters behind the doctor.

John turns and gapes in shock, the detective is close, enough where John can reach out and touch the man's chest, and so he does just that. John's hand is promptly on Sherlock's chest, the doctor feeling the younger man's heart beat steadily with neutral rhythm.

Sherlock rarely apologises and when he does, the 'sorrys' are snide and sarcastic. The doctor looks into the genius's eyes and sees genuine sadness.

"It doesn't matter." John says eventually and quietly, his voice thick with a self-depreciating tone, lowering his head and staring a his hand on the younger man's chest.

Fingers cup the doctor's chin gently and tilt it up. "It does matter," Sherlock remarks simply, slouching slightly to place a soft kiss upon John's lips. The doctor respond eagerly, deepening the kiss and throwing a hand around the genius's neck, pulling the younger man closer.

The connection is instant and Sherlock doesn't hold back, the silence gone and memories float between them. John moans softly against their combined lips, his emotions no longer glum but suddenly happy and it's not because of memory manipulation.

Abruptly, John breaks the kiss, partly to breath and another part because he isn't done with the conversation.

"No more, Sherlock." John states firmly, wrapping his arms around the thin waist in front of him and gripping the genius tight. "I can't do it, knowing you are out their and I could be helping."

"John, I-" The detective tries, holding John tight.

"I can't do it," The doctor interrupts sadly, "and if you don't agree, I will just follow you, wandering around the streets of London by myself. I might even make a sigh that says, 'Kidnap Me, Fresh Meat'." John adds, hiding his manipulation smirk in Sherlock's chest.

_"That's not fair, John."_

"I wouldn't hesitate for a second." is John's simply response, tearing himself away from the detective confidently and moving to the screaming kettle. John's back is turned to the genius as he removes the piercing object and continues about making tea.

Thin arms are around John once again and he can feel Sherlock's breath against his ear.

_"Fine."_

"I'm sorry what was that?" John inquires smugly.

"I said fine." Sherlock admits with a huff of irritation. "You'd be safer with me than out on some street with a sandwich board."

John laughs and leans his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder briefly.

Just like that, John's anger dissipates, leaving a warm happy feeling. The doctor wonders idly if it's because he won and argument or because he finally feels wanted again, even if he had to use manipulation as a source of motivation.

 _"With your tactics, John, you are going to start becoming more like me."_ The doctor shudders at the thought.

"We really don't need two of you." John states, smiling as Sherlock's grip tightens in happiness, a smile plastered upon both of their faces.


	24. The Breaking Of Rule 12

A case, it's always a case. The thrill and the chase, it pumps adrenaline into John, coursing through his blood like rapids stirring a placid river.

The ex-soldier is following Sherlock diligently, jumping the gaps between rooftops of unassuming buildings, in hot pursuit of the latest serial rapist. John is two steps behind the detective, who just leaped a significant gap.

The doctor stops suddenly, skidding to a stop just meters away from the opening, an irrational fear holding gripping at him and holding him anchored to the wrong side of the gap. John hasn't felt this hesitant since the first night, chasing after the cab, Sherlock taking John on his first 'rooftop pursuit'.

John shakes his head, dispelling his qualms, he steps back a couple paces and then with a running leap launches himself across the crevice. John lands on the other side without problem, instantly sprinting to catch up with the determined sleuth, who is already onto the next building, quickly catching up to the criminal.

John runs faster than before, trying to catch up. He keeps his eyes open with force and watches as Sherlock catches up to the criminal, only a leap away.

John jumps the last gap, coming to a halt.

_"John."_

John stills in confusion, he only looked down for a second when jumping and in that time, the criminal had grabbed Sherlock and is now pointing a knife to the detective's pale neck. The man, Ian Jeremiah, is surprisingly taller than the genius, his form towering at least 30 centimeters above Sherlock's form, the right height to hold onto the detective with brute force.

"Stop where you are." The man demands, digging the knife into Sherlock's neck with more force. John stares in shock, Ian Jeremiah is just a kid, maybe 18. The doctor's mind reels, how can someone so young be so brutal to woman? John straightens up, trying to be less threatening to the boy in front of him.

John sends emotions into the already open connection between the detective and himself. The first feeling is a rush of confusing contentment. "Are you okay?"

_"Yes, John. I'm fine."_

The doctor sighs and steps forward, trying to think of a plan.

Jeremiah panics and steps back, his feet centimeters from the ledge.

"Okay." John states, holding his hands up in surrender. The criminal glances behind and then down to the ground below. "That's a long ways down." The doctor adds with a soothing tone.

"Stay back," The criminals voice is panicked and scared, his eyes darting back and forth. "If I fall, he falls." Jeremiah says, digging the knife into Sherlock's neck further.

"Okay, what do you want?" John asks, hoping he can be diplomatic and he won't have to count on his ability to get them out of the situation.

"I don't want to go to prison." The boy states, moving more towards the edge, forcing Sherlock to move with him. John is starting to lose his calm demeanor. The building is high, too high to survive and Sherlock is not going to be dragged down by some lunatic.

"Unfortunately, that isn't an option, Jeremiah." Sherlock remarks and the criminal snarls, dragging the knife across Sherlock's throat, deep enough to draw blood but not life threatening.

John steps forward instinctively at the sight of blood. He sends an irritated wave of consternation and unhappiness. _"Shut up, Sherlock."_

"You are just a kid, Ian. Think about it, if you cooperate now, maybe the law will take it easy on you." John states quickly trying to dispel the knife sliding any deeper into the detective's neck.

"I can't go to jail." Jeremiah states again, more firmly, glancing behind him once more. John takes another step forward.

The panicked boy reacts badly to John's advancing steps and grows even closer to the edge.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's thought is faintly panicked.

John makes a decision. He branches out, finding Ian's link and sends calming effects into his mind.

Jeremiah stays firm, his stance unrelenting. The calming effects aren't working. John internally panics and transmits confusion, distress and helplessness into Sherlock. _"It's not working."_

 _"It isn't working?"_ Sherlock's thoughts are confused slightly and John sends a confirmation wave of happiness.

_"Try something else."_

What could he try? If the calming effect isn't working for some reason, John couldn't send him into a coma and the situation could become even more dangerous.

He could send a paralysing grief but that goes against Rule 12 and John's own conscience. ( _Rule#12, pushing negative emotions upon someone is strictly prohibited_ )

Jeremiah inches closer to the edge, glancing down nervously but with a determined confidence.

 _"John!"_ Sherlock shouts and John makes a decision, in a split second John sends overwhelming grief and despair into Ian's mind.

Ian Jeremiah's eyes grow wide and dilate, he shakes his head in confusion, the grip on the knife tightens but his grip on Sherlock loosens. In one quick movement, Sherlock tears himself out of the criminal's grasp and launches himself away from the edge, standing beside John.

The doctor sighs in relief and glances over at the detective.

 _"Fine. I'm fine."_ Sherlock waves a hand dismissively and both men turn their attention back to Jeremiah.

The hasn't moved, his thoughts confusing him and the grief making him weaker. Tears fall from the boy's face at the overwhelming feeling of despair.

John slowly advances, now that Sherlock is out of the way.

"Ian, it's okay." John states with comfort, merely centimeters away from the boy.

Jeremiah shakes his head and puts his hands against his temples. John pulls out immediately, the boy's mind is fragile, weak even and the emotions are too much for him.

Just as John is about to grab for Jeremiah, Ian's eyes roll back and his knees give out. John reaches out but it's too late, Jeremiah lists back uncontrollably.

"No." John screams launching himself towards the edge, desperately trying to grab out for the boy.

He feels a hand on his jumper, preventing John from careening over the side of the building.

John's upper body lays in midair, Sherlock's hand on his back preventing the doctor from falling, but John's hands are empty and he watches gravity push the boy towards the ground. Ian Jeremiah lands with a sickening thud.

John stares for a long minute, his thoughts in shock.

In a sudden movement John uses both of his hands to push himself up off the ledge. Sherlock helps by pulling on the back of John's jumper. The doctor is up and running to the adjacent edge of the rooftop.

 _"John."_ The soldier can here Sherlock's thoughts call out to him in confusion but John doesn't stop. The soldier finds the fire escape and climbs down it at a record place. Once he gets his feet firmly on the stairs of the fire escape he flies down the steps, the metal clanging at his eager running.

All the while, John can only think. _"Maybe he's alive, maybe I can help him."_ The doctor holds onto that thought, a better alternative to his other thoughts. _"I killed him. This is my fault."_

Down the stairs, John lost count of how many floors in the building after the fifth zigzagging metal staircase. Finally, John makes it to the last staircase and climbs down the ladder to the ground, jumping off of the last rung and falling to the ground below, about a two and a half meters distance.

The fall ricochets painfully up John's legs but the doctor is up, ignoring the shooting pain, and sprinting towards Jeremiah, rounding the corner into the alleyway.

He sees the form of Ian and kneels beside it instantly. John checks for a pulse rapidly but doesn't find one. Blood seeps from Jeremiah's head, pooling below the criminal.

"No." John whispers, punching a fist directly onto Jeremiah's chest, right over his heart, attempting a strong CPR.

Hands are around John and the doctor tries to fight them, desperate to continue saving the young boy's life.

The doctor didn't even register that Sherlock had followed him, John's mind solely focused on getting to Jeremiah. The detective had sprinted after John and it is not that surprising really. The soldier tried to save someone from falling off the ledge and in the process almost falls off himself and then immediately bolts from the rooftop like it's on fire. _"I would follow myself down multiple stories of fire escapes too."_ The doctor thinks to himself.

Sherlock tears the doctor away from the body, dragging John against the dirty alleyway and holding the older man to his chest. John struggles to get away, writhes and arches his back to bring the boy back to life.

"He's dead, John." The detective deadpans out loud.

The doctor stares at the body, his eyes closed and his limbs bent at awkward angles. John stops fighting and lays limp in Sherlock's arms, his breathing heavy and shallow.

"I killed him." John whispers, despair and guilt lacing his voice.

"He was a serial rapists." Sherlock's baritone responds, gripping John tighter.

"He was just a boy." John bites back, staring at the boy, his lifeless body burning into John's brain, ammunition for future nightmares.

Even though the April air is surprisingly warm and Sherlock's body heat is encompassing, John can't help shiver as a feeling of cold guilt settles deep within him.

John pushes himself away from Sherlock, standing up abruptly just as Lestrade and company sprints around the corner.

The doctor leans against a wall, as far as possible from Jeremiah's corpse, all the while staring at the dead boy in front of him.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade asks looking between John, Sherlock and the rapist lying on the ground.

"He jumped." Sherlock says with disinterest, moving closer to John, planting himself in between the dead body and John's shocked stare.

"How?" Sally asks, moving to the body, kneeling down and checking for a pulse.

"It's all my fault." John voice is quiet and hoarse. All eyes look to the doctor, his stance is small and timid. Sherlock's eyes move swiftly to John's blank expression. The genius walks over to John while the rest of the Yarders stare quizzically.

 _"John, you tried to save him. It's not your fault."_ The younger man grips John's shoulders and pulls him into a hug, embracing the man with warmth and love.

John sends a wave of guilt, unhappiness, pain, regret, irritation, grief and despair. _"I did it, I made him lose his balance."_

Sherlock shakes his head, his chin brushing slowly across John's blond locks. The detective pulls out of the embrace and crouches down slightly to look John in the eye.

_"No you didn't. He fell off and you tried to save him."_

"What is going on?" Lestrade questions, watching the scene unfold but not questioning it, he's known for years how good Sherlock is at reading expressions and ignores the exchange.

Sherlock turns slightly towards the DI with a neutral gaze. "He had some sort of fit and then fell off the roof. John reached out and tried to save him, almost falling off the roof himself."

Lestrade's face softens and looks at the doctor who gaze is directed at the former Jeremiah.

"John, you did the best you could." Lestrade states, moving towards John, the DI's voice is low and soothing.

John doesn't look at the advancing Lestrade and instead gazes away from the scene. "I know." The doctor says sadly, moving out of the alleyway, away from the death and the memories.

As he gets to the street, blue flashing lights illuminate the road and John leans against a brick wall, waiting patiently for Sherlock to be done or someone to take his statement, whichever comes first.

The doctor can vaguely hear the detective giving his statement to Lestrade in the alleyway and closes his eyes, breaking the connection so he doesn't have to see the boy in Sherlock's mind.

John notices a presence and opens his eyes hoping that it's Sherlock so they can go home. The doctor is slightly disappointed when he realises it's Sally standing in front of him. The doctor sighs and straightens up, his back no longer leaning against the brick, his stance purely military and confident.

"Let's get this over with shall we?" John asks impatiently nodding towards Sally's pad and pen. He just wants to get away from this horrible day.

"John, I'm sorry." Donovan says quietly, her voice hushed as if she is admitting a great weakness. The soldier softens and gazes into the policewoman's eyes.

"So am I." John remarks, shaking his head sadly.

"He was a bad guy." She whispers, trying to cheer the doctor up.

"Should that really justify his death?" John asks, cursing himself for his pretentious morals and their ability to instill guilt.

"I guess not." Donovan remarks, fiddling with her pen and paper absentmindedly.

"Right, lets get this over with." John states and proceeds to tell his story. With John's gift, it becomes tricky to give an accurate depiction of how certain things happen, especially to the police. Mostly, John just tells the truth, the doctor and his detective chased Jeremiah on the roof, he grabbed a hold of Sherlock, had some sort of fit and feel off the roof.

All in all, it is a relatively honest account, only leaving out his gift being the reason the criminal had a fit.

"Thank you, John." Sally says once they are finished, "And again, I'm sorry."

"Thanks Sally." John remarks and the policewoman walks away towards the crime scene tape.

Once his statement has been taken, John feels the sudden urge to be somewhere else, anywhere but this area. His feet are moving before John even commands them. The lights and the sirens and the bustle of a crime scene are fading into the distance and John walks towards the darker streets.

It doesn't take long for John to realise that he just killed a man, a boy. It also doesn't take long for the soldier to find himself in a pub, not far from the crime scene.

The pub is dark and quiet and no one bothers John as he saddles up to the bar. His fingers twitching and his mind reeling. He orders a pint without a conscious effort and chugs it down.

He closes off his mental barriers, not wanting to hear any unwanted thoughts push at him. Especially from the detective, who no doubt will deduce his location soon enough.

The doctor silently curses the genius's accurate deductions as John orders another drink.

 _"You killed the cabby in cold blood, how is this different?"_ John asks himself as he drinks the next pint, this time a little slower. It is different, John killed the cabby with a gun, a physical weapon and it was a conscious choice to protect Sherlock.

 _"This was a conscious choice."_ John presents to himself, the pint going down with a bitter taste.

 _"I killed that boy with mind, not my gun. It's different, more personal, more terrifying."_ John argues with himself. It's true, the doctor did kill the cabby with the gun which is on a different weapon level than John's mind.

 _"Then, how is it any different than the home intruder?"_ John question himself, downing the rest of the pint and ordering another, realising that drinking away his sorrows is an extremely bad idea and it makes John no different than his father or his sister. Yet, somewhere in his logical decision making process, the doctor decides he doesn't care, images of the boy's shattered body dance across his mind only encourage his decision.

It is still different, John hasn't killed like this before. The home intruder was an accident, his rage and desperation in control and killing that man was out of the control of John's conscience. The doctor still doesn't know how he did it and the fact that John is powerful enough to do something like that is extremely terrifying.

 _"I should add that to the rules. No killing with my mind."_ John thinks to himself bitterly, snorting and hiccuping slightly. Perhaps the drinks are getting to the doctor, he always was a lightweight.

No matter how the doctor spins it, this death is eating at him, and it all boils down to it being a conscious decision, the fact that John actually decided to send paralysing waves of grief into Jeremiah. _"The boy would still be alive if I hadn't broken my rule. There wouldn't be blood splattered on that alleyway if I hadn't used my gift for evil."_ John thinks with regret, twirling the handle of his pint with a lazily rhythm.

John sits at the bar, ordering pints, trying to make his memories go away, something he hasn't done since coming back from war.

"I've been calling you." The detective whispers into John's ear, causing the doctor to almost fall of his stool. The appearance of Sherlock is sudden and surprising.

"J'sus Sherloock." The doctor slurs, apparently five pints is too much in a short setting.

"Come along, John." Sherlock says, gripping the man across the waist and pulling him to the door.

 _"Why didn't you answer me?"_ Sherlock's thought is timid and unassuming, John's mental barriers have broken due to the copious amounts of alcohol in his system. However, the doctor feels a headache coming on, not unusual when the doctor drinks and has a mental conversation.

"Because I didn't want to." John responds, letting Sherlock guide him into a cab that appeared out of nowhere. "I silenced incoming thoughts." The doctor says glumly, letting his head rest against the cool window as the cab makes it's way to Baker Street, his body tense and unwelcoming.

 _"You can do that?"_ The detective is surprised.

"Well, I did it." John remarks with a snap, finding it hard to stay focused on the conversation, mostly because he is indifferent to the new information.

"That's different, John." Sherlock says out loud, shuffling closer to John's body. The doctor doesn't move when Sherlock wraps an arm around the John's shoulders.

"John, Jeremiah's death isn't your fault." The younger man states confidently, tugging the doctor away from the window. John let's the genius guide him to rest on Sherlock's chest.

_"He didn't react to the calm. You had to use other tactics. You got us out of there alive."_

John just nods, it may be true, it was their last hope, at least Sherlock's anyway.

The soldier thinks back to all of the other times the detective has been in danger and the doctor recalls the only thing that links each situation together.

John always promises himself, anything to keep the detective safe.

It's a reasoning and maybe a weak one at that but it's something, something better than just killing in cold blood. John was protecting Sherlock. John will always protect Sherlock.

Slowly, with the realisation, John starts to accepts the thought, Sherlock would have died if John hadn't acted the way he did. Maybe John could have gone about it differently and maybe Jeremiah would still be alive but the fact of the matter is, John made the quick decision and they are both still alive.

"How do y' do that?" John's voice is all over the place, slurring and hiccuping.

_"Do what?"_

"Make ev'rything so simple and strai-straigh-straight..forward." The doctor stutters out. "In one sen'ence you were able to twist wha' five pints of beer support'd."

_"You already know."_

John tilts his head up, looking at the detective with raised eyebrows.

_"I'm brilliant."_

The drunken doctor giggles and rest his head against his boyfriend's shoulder, suddenly sleepy and a little bit calmer.

"I 'ove yo'." The doctor slurs sleepily.

_"I love you, Dr. Watson."_


	25. A Trick, My Dear Watson

It's nine o'clock in the evening and John trudges up the stairs with a slow and languid shuffle. His shift at the surgery was brutal, the patients rude and demanding. The doctor is pretty sure half of them were faking it and the other half too sick to care how tetchy they had become.

John prides himself in being a friendly people person, a very tolerant one too, but by the end of the day he was snapping at everyone.

It was the best feeling walking into the London air, eager to get home for multiple reasons.

The most important being, it's their one year anniversary.

John had opened Sherlock's connection immediately after his shift was over but the detective had been been quiet, so John had to commute home in silence.

Now he makes it up the stairs, finally, and his mood has only worsened, the tube was backed up and the people were rude and angry.

When John enters the sitting room, wanting to just bask in Sherlock's company, he finds himself disappointed that the detective is no where to be seen.

"Sherlock!" John calls out into the flat but only silence answers. The doctor sighs with resignation and plops onto the couch, not bothering to take his coat off, not even bothering to make tea, that's how bad John's day had been.

John pushes confusion and wonder into the link. _"Where are you?"_

Sherlock's connection is quiet and John whips out his phone to type a message.

_Where are you? -JW_

He waits seconds before there is a reply.

_It's a surprise - SH_

The doctor stares at the message in confusion. Two things seem weird about the SMS. The first being the fact that Sherlock is actually texting John. The detective hasn't texted the doctor in over a year, there is no need.

 _"Maybe he doesn't want to take the chance of ruining the surprise."_ John thinks to himself.

Another thing that seems strange about the text message is the fact that Sherlock is going out of his way to surprise John, and the makes the doctor's heart swell with love.

_When will I know what the surprise is? - JW_

_Soon_

John stares at the text message again, the lack of signature is disturbing, something feels off for the doctor. He sends panic and fear into the connection but nothing comes back. Sherlock would always respond to the emotional code, and yet he didn't.

_Who is this? - JW_

_Ah, the game is up I'm afraid. Bit too obvious was I - M_

John freezes. Moriarty.

Why does the man have Sherlock's mobile?

_Where is Sherlock? - JW_

_I'm afraid he is taking a little nap. - M_

_I swear to god, if you hurt him, I will kill you - JW_

_Your threats are dull - M_

_I'm going to find you - JW_

_I'll make it easy, I heard the pool is being remodeled. We all have such fine memories of the pool, don't we Johnny Boy? - M_

_Midnight?- JW_

_Oh, Johnny you remember! - M_

John throws his mobile against the settee's cushions in a huff. At some point during the conversation, the doctor had risen and started pacing furiously around the room. The telepath tries to dig into Sherlock's brain, breaking through his unconscious slumber, looking for anything that would give confirmation of where the detective is at, or at least confirmation that he is still alive.

John digs deep into the detective's mind, not even coating his intrusion with feelings, just plain digging. Finally, the doctor finds something tangible, a memory. The doctor unfolds the memory like a rolled up piece of paper.

That's when John realises it isn't a memory at all, it's colors. Very faint hues that fade and then sporadically blink in vibrancy, the colors flow into John's brain.

John lets out a huge sigh of relief, the genius is alive but unconscious. The doctor wrings his hands together in anger, relief and sadness. He stares at the clock on the microwave, green numbers glow back at the soldier, their digital lines reading nine forty. He has a little over two hours until he has to meet Moriarty.

The doctor paces across the sitting room, keeping a hold of Sherlock's faint, slumbering colors. There is a lot of reds being passed through the genius's mind and John tries to calm the detective but his unconscious state is deep and the red stays.

John grunts in frustration.

The doctor stares at his phone lying on the couch. He should call Mycroft, the politician could help.

What would happen to Sherlock if Mycroft is called? Would Moriarty kill him?

John stares longingly at the mobile and then turns away with determination. John can't afford to call the elder Holmes, the risk is too great.

Why now? Why today of all days? The doctor paces back and forth, looking at the clock every five seconds.

The clock turns from ten to ten thirty and the blond man can't handle it anymore. John races into their bedroom and grabs the gun in the drawer. He loads it and forces it into his back waistband.

The doctor is shaking as he heads out of the door and off into the night, hoping that they both will make it out alive again.

There is a saying that lightening never strikes the same place twice, yet, John finds himself in a cab, driving back to the pool. A place that they both barely escaped the last time.

* * *

The cab drops him off at the entrance of the building. The outside still looks the same as John remembers but the doctor doesn't stop moving to reminiscence. It's eleven thirty and the doctor walks into the open doors, his gun hugging his back reassuringly as the soldier walks into his living nightmare.

John can senses the blood before he smells the chlorine, it's stronger than last time, filling the doctor's mental nostrils and taste buds with sickening ease. John wrinkles his nose in disgust but pulls out his gun as he zigzags through the lobby and into the actual pool area. The blond man sees the doors, the all too familiar doors, and pushes through them without hesitation. A sudden wave of chlorine hits him and it mixes unpleasantly with the blood whirling around in John's brain.

The soldier scans the interior, his eyes darting to the balcony above and glancing into the water. Several minutes of silence envelope the doctor and John finds himself growing steadily impatient.

"I know you are here Moriarty." John calls into the remodeled pool, the water reflecting off the ceiling, dancing and shimmering with ease.

A clicking of shoes erupts behind John and he turns around rapidly. The Irishman stands in front of him, coming through the door John just entered. The doctor aims his gun directly at Moriarty's head.

"You are early," Moriarty states, raising an eyebrow, "But it is so nice of you to join me."

"Where is Sherlock?" John demands, holding his ground. The man in his Westwood suit, walking gingerly, further into the pool area.

"Safe." Moriarty remarks, his expression cold and neutral, his eyes remain focused on John, something isn't right.

"Safe?" John repeats, quickly scanning the pool area once again, looking for any signs of the detective or Moriarty's goons. It's an oddly vague description and the criminal mastermind likes to brag, he would have told John exactly where the detective is hiding.

"I'm going to be honest, Johnny." Moriarty begins, advancing slowly towards the doctor, ignoring the doctor's question. "We don't have a lot of time."

The Irishman stands directly in front of John, the gun centimeters from Moriarty's chest.

"Where is he?" John commands through gritted teeth, clicking the safety off of the Browning and closing the gap between them. The surge of blood is almost overpowering but John holds his ground.

Suddenly, John's mobile rings, it's shrill song echoing throughout the acoustic walls of the pool.

Both men stare at each other, neither moving, as the mobile continues to ring in John's pocket.

After the third ring, Moriarty lets out a huff of annoyance. "Answer it!" He yells and John flinches. The doctor doesn't waste time and hastily plunges a hand into his pocket, pulling out the mobile and looks briefly at the screen before hitting the answer button.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asks timidly, keeping his gun trained on the criminal mastermind. Why is Mycroft calling? Why is Moriarty letting him answer the phone?

"John," Mycroft voice is calm and neutral just as it always has been. "Sherlock is in the A&E."

John takes a step back in shock, and then he stares into Moriarty's eyes. The criminal mastermind's face contorts into a grin. John doesn't say anything, he is frozen in surprise and confusion.

"Surprise." Moriarty mouths at John and the doctor resist the urge to shoot the man.

John doesn't speak, he stares at the obnoxious grin that Moriarty is holding on his face.

"John. John, did you hear me?" Mycroft's voice calls out through the phone, the doctor shakes his head slightly and opens his mouth to speak.

"What?" John's voice is quiet, emotions running across his face and the Irishman watches with menacing glee.

"He is in the hospital, John. Someone mugged him." Mycroft remarks. "They knocked him unconscious, taking his mobile and pocket book."

The doctor shakes his head but keeps his eyes focused on the criminal mastermind who is taking another step forward.

"How come we didn't know about this earlier?" John asks, taking a step back from Moriarty again, scanning the area for exits and/or an ambush. What's the point? Why trick him into coming to the pool?

"Someone dropped him off under John Doe." Mycroft states, "The staff called the police and the bobby recognised him. Gregory called me."

Moriarty never had Sherlock, John walked into a trapped. The doctor sighs into the mobile. Realisations and emotions filtering through him. Moriarty never intended to involve Sherlock, only get him out of the way so John could be tricked into coming alone.

"What's the timeline?" John questions, wondering how long Sherlock has been unconscious.

"The timeline?" Mycroft repeats, confusion creeping into his voice. "John, where are you?" Of course the elder Holmes would notice something is wrong. John looks up to Moriarty who is shaking his head. The lunatic looks down to John's chest and the doctor's gaze follows. A small red dot appears right over John's heart. The soldier scowls and lifts his head up again.

"How long has he been unconscious?" John inquiries, his voice suddenly firm and determined.

"He was dropped off about five minutes to nine. He hasn't woken up since." Mycroft states, his voice no longer neutral. "Where are you, John?" The elder Holmes's voice is suspicious.

"Are you there? Are you at the hospital?" John ignores Mycroft's questions, just hoping that Sherlock won't wake up alone

"Gregory is, I'm on my way, why? John what's going on?" Mycroft asks again, his voice growing slightly panicked.

"I can't explain. Just tell Sherlock I'm sorry." John resigns pulling the phone away from his ear.

He can hear the elder Holmes calling out for him but John ends the call and places his mobile back in his pocket. John looks down and sighs, feeling like a complete idiot.

"You never had him." The doctor states looking back up at Moriarty, the man before him shaking his head with a smile.

"Nope!" The Irishman cheers gleefully, closing the gap between them, John grips his gun tighter and straightens his stance. He may have walked into a trap but there is no way he is leaving now with Moriarty still alive.

"I can kill you know." John remarks, his knuckles white and his face determined.

"No, I don't think so." Moriarty responds nodding towards the red dot on John's chest. "Seb will not hesitate."

"But then you will be dead." John states, gripping the gun harder.

The two men stare at each other. John working up the courage to shoot Moriarty and the criminal mastermind analysing the doctor. Minutes pass and suddenly Moriarty speaks.

"You nobility is dull." Moriarty sighs, turning his back to the soldier and waves a hand in the air. John watches with surprise at the retreating form of Moriarty. A sudden pain in the doctor's neck causes John to falter. While still holding the gun with one hand, another hand flies to his neck. Moriarty turns to face John, a smirk on his face.

Soft strands of material meet the pads of the doctor's fingers. With a pull, John yanks out the dart and stares at it, it's red and white tube glistening like the blood he can't get away from, plaguing the doctor's mind and thoughts. John shakes his head, his eyes are already starting to go fuzzy. Abruptly, John's legs buckle, causing the doctor to fall to the tile floor.

John's knees hit the ground hard and with a loud thud. The soldier tries to aim his gun at Moriarty but the Irishman has moved closer once again, extending his arm in the process and batting the gun away. It flies out of John's grasp, clattering to the ground and sliding away. The sound of metal scraping tile reverberates loudly into John's ears.

The doctor is breathing heavy, his thoughts are jumbled, the blood is all consuming and Moriarty's face is now directly in front of him. John tries to focus on the face but his vision is blurring, things that use to be clear are now fuzzy and moving in an out of focus. The soldier closes his eyes, trying to stop the headache forming and willing Moriarty's blood senses to go away.

"I expected more out of a soldier." Moriarty says, crouching in front of the drugged doctor. John's eyes snap open and his face twists in confusion, his head hurts, his vision is blurred and the smell of blood is starting to make the doctor gag. John lists forward, he extends his hands instinctively and they catch the doctor, but under John's drugged weight and his hands collapse and John plummets to the floor. The telepath's bad shoulder connects with the floor hard and John lets out a pained gasp.

The doctor rolls onto his back, trying to get away from Moriarty and sit up at the same time. A sudden hand is placed upon his chest, the weight forcing John to remain on the ground. The doctor writhes and struggles but nothing happens.

He is going to pass out, John knows it, he can feel every muscle in his body growing weaker. He wants to say something, anything snide and degrading but his mouth isn't working. Nothing is responding to his bodily pleas.

A hand brushes across his chest softly. John shudders and tries to move away but his body doesn't answer.

"I can't wait for Sherlock to visit later, once you've begged him to rescue you." Moriarty whispers into John's ear, his hand brushing leisurely on John's clothed torso. The doctor attempts to flinch away from the hot breath, it only comes out as a weak tremble.

"No." John whimpers, his head lolling and his eyes closing. He hears Moriarty laughing. He feels the cold tile beneath him. He smells the chlorine.

But the last thing John notices is far worse than the laughing or the tile or even the chlorine. The last thing John observes before the drug knocks him out is the blood. It's presence mixing in with all of John's senses, the metallic smell, the copper taste, the sticky feeling.

It is everywhere and as John falls deep into a drug induced slumber, all he dreams are about blood. He can't get away from it and it's never ending flow.


	26. The Stairwell

Sherlock's head hurts, it throbs painfully and its interfering with his mind, his thoughts, his deductions.

Why is he here?

Where is John?

It's been fourteen hours since the detective's been admitted to the A&E. Sherlock was unconscious for the first thirteen and half of them. His face smarts and there is a gigantic bruise over his cheek.

The detective spent the first ten minutes of his wakefulness trying to remember his attacker. His brain wouldn't cooperate and Sherlock almost tore his hair out in frustration. The doctors told him it was a slight version of amnesia. Like knowing that fact was suppose to calm the genius.

Sherlock huffed and demanded they leave, calling them all idiots.

The detective is anything but calm. He is mysteriously in the hospital and no one knows why. He doesn't have his mobile or his pocket book anymore and John is not by his side.

And no one is telling him anything.

He pushes thoughts at John, trying to figure out where the doctor is currently located. The older man is not returning any of Sherlock's transmitting thoughts and that worries the detective.

 _"Maybe John is angry with me?"_ Sherlock thinks, suddenly and irrationally worried. It was their anniversary last night and Sherlock had a huge surprise planned.

 _"No, John wouldn't hold a grudge if it was so obviously not my fault."_ Sherlock reassures himself. _"Would he?"_

Although, Angelo might be a tad tetchy the next time he sees the restaurant owner. Sherlock had rented out the entire restaurant for a surprise, a nice quiet dinner.

The detective's eyes are closed and his head is tilted to the ceiling, pushing thoughts to John, who is still not responding. The detective has to get out of here.

The door creaks open but Sherlock doesn't move, his thoughts running wild. Escape schemes and attempts are being mapped out in Sherlock's brain as the visitor walks further into the room.

Sherlock doesn't even have to open his eyes to know who the new occupant is. The clicking of the shoes and the smell of cologne screams Mycroft.

The younger man is not really in the mood for a visit with his older brother and he sighs with annoyance.

A thought races across Sherlock's brain.

"You know where John is." The detective states, a demand. The younger man opens one eye to gaze at the older Holmes.

Mycroft sighs as he sits down next to Sherlock, gripping his umbrella and placing it across his knees. Mycroft purposely doesn't look at the detective, making his face neutral and not letting anything away.

However, the lack of eye contact tells the detective more than Mycroft's face could ever show.

"Moriarty has him." Sherlock breathes, his insides on fire. Emotions and feelings, memories and thoughts scream inside Sherlock's brain, running a mile a minute, but Sherlock's face remains neutral and plain.

"Yes." is Mycroft's simple answer, looking his brother in the face. The genius gazes into his older brother's eyes, he sees a flash of guilt.

"You were talking with him." Sherlock deadpans, trying to push the emotions away and focus on the evidence.

"I was." The elder Holmes says.

"What happened?" Sherlock resists the urge to scream at Mycroft, to blame the older man for letting John get kidnapped.

"We found out you were in the hospital, under a John Doe," Mycroft begins, "I called John and he was acting strange."

"Strange how?" Sherlock questions, closing his eyes and trying to picture the conversation.

"He asked for the timeline." Mycroft remarks, raising his eyebrows lightly.

"The timeline?" Sherlock's thoughts are spinning. The doctor didn't ask immediately if he was all right, he went straight for the time of events.

"He was tricked into meeting with Moriarty." Sherlock deduces.

"That's what I assumed." Mycroft states.

"John thought Moriarty had me." The detective continues. "The whole point of the emotional code is for the two of us to communicate. That would have been John's first step." Sherlock adds, "Except, the I wasn't responding because I was unconscious. John had assume that Moriarty really captured me."

"He asked because he wanted to make sure that Moriarty never had you." Mycroft finishes.

Sherlock nods.

"Why wouldn't he call me?" The politician questions.

Sherlock contemplates the inquiry. If John willingly went to Moriarty, it was to protect Sherlock.

"John wouldn't risk it," Sherlock comments, steepling the fingers under his chin. "He wouldn't risk Moriarty hurting myself."

Mycroft sighs.

"Moriarty's men mugged me." Sherlock deduces, "It's too much of a coincidence."

"Yes. We've caught them." Mycroft answers, "Low level thugs, completely disposable."

The detective nods. "Where is he?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft sighs with resignation. "CCTV follows John from the flat to a swimming pool in-"

"We've met Moriarty there once, a long time ago." Sherlock states hurriedly. Of course Moriarty would chose to met there, the evil bastard.

The pair remains silent for a moment and Sherlock tries pushing thoughts into the doctor's mind, but still, silence is the only thing that answers.

"He isn't answering back," Sherlock states out loud, staring into the distance. "This means one of two things. He is unconscious or-" Sherlock stops himself suddenly. John dead? Not possible, completely and utterly impossible.

"Moriarty wouldn't kill him." Mycroft says bluntly, trying his best to reassure the detective.

"No. No he wouldn't." The genius states dismissively.

"He is too much of an asset to throw away, Sherlock." Mycroft states firmly and the detective looks at his older brother. The older man's face is firm and determined causing Sherlock to immediately trust his brother's word.

"Yes." The younger man replies.

Suddenly, Sherlock feels the relieving and familiar poking in his brain.

"John." The detective says out loud and Mycroft stares at the younger Holmes with curiosity.

"I can feel him." Sherlock exclaims, his eyes focused but his face happy with relief.

Just as suddenly as the connection happens, it stops again.

"He pulled out," Sherlock says with dread.

The detective does not give up easy, he pushes his thoughts into the doctor.

Sherlock's thoughts are shamelessly desperate but the detective continues on regardless.

_"John. Where are you?"_

_"John, answer me."_

_"Are you hurt?"_

The connection is silent so Sherlock continues pushing, filling his brain with the small poking and he sighs in relief.

A wave of contentment is pushed into Sherlock and the detective calms slightly.

"He isn't hurt." Sherlock says out loud and the connection is lost again. Why does it fade in and out? Is the doctor really hurt? Is he controlling?

_"John. You're fine?"_

_"Where are you?"_

_"Why aren't you answering me?"_

_"John."_

_"John."_

John remains silent and the detective is growing panicked and even more desperate then before.

"He's protecting me, Mycroft." The detective cries looking to his brother with anguished eyes.

For the next several minutes, Sherlock sends thought after thought.

_"John."_

_"Please, answer me."_

_"Where are you?"_

None of these thoughts break through the doctor's resolve. Sherlock stops, hanging his head with defeat and tries to think.

"He's not letting me in, either Moriarty threatened him or myself." Sherlock mumbles, ignoring Mycroft's form.

A sudden wave of pain hits Sherlock, making the detective's eyes squeeze shut and the genius's hands to fly to his head, gripping his hair for an anchor.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft inquiries, standing up and approaching Sherlock's bed.

"He's hurting him." The detective announces through gritted teeth.

"He's connected again?" The politician asks, his hands ghosting over his younger brother.

"No, it happens sometimes when the pain is strong, the connection will open up on it's own between us and emotions with filter through briefly." Sherlock states, the pain subsiding quietly.

Sherlock forces himself into silence, asking himself one question. _"Where would Moriarty take John?"_

The criminal mastermind is sentimental, even if he won't admit it, why else would he meet John at the swimming pool?

Sherlock also knows that Moriarty expects him to be unpredictable and entertaining. Wherever they are, Sherlock will have to go through obstacles to get to John. Where would Moriarty take John that would hold sentimental value?

"I know where they are." Sherlock says suddenly, turning to face Mycroft.

The politician raises an eyebrow.

"No time to explain brother, I need to leave now." Sherlock states flying out of bed, grabbing his clothes out of one of the cupboards.

The genius strips off his dressing gown and hastily starts to dress.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warns, walking over to his younger brother, placing a hand on Sherlock.

"Mycroft, they are hurting him, I can feel it." Sherlock cries with distraught. "I don't have a lot of time to save him."

Mycroft looks at the detective with a twinge of pity but takes his hand off the younger man's forearm.

A knock on the door interrupts the Holmes brothers, a man walks into the room.

"Lestrade." Sherlock states slightly panicked, the DI doesn't know about John and Sherlock doesn't have time to beat around the bush.

The politician sighs. "Gregory."

The DI stares back at them both suspiciously, feeling unwelcomed but suddenly too angry to care. Sherlock arms are raised, pulling on his shirt.

"Sherlock, you were just mugged, you can't just go gallivanting off." The DI shouts, knowing an escape attempt when he sees one.

 _"John, I'm coming, hang on."_ Sherlock pushes at the doctor before answering Lestrade.

"Gregory, this is important." The politician says reassuringly, beating Sherlock to a response. The elder Holmes turns his attention to the Inspector, staring into Greg's eyes.

Sherlock continues to dress, ignoring their conversation.

"You too, Mycroft." The DI says sadly, looking back at the older man.

"You know me, love," Mycroft pleads, "you know when something is important." The politician is standing in front of Greg now, looking into his eyes with conviction.

"What's going on, My?" Lestrade asks quietly, trying to understand.

"John's in trouble." The elder Holmes responds.

"I gathered that much." The DI says huffily, watching as Sherlock grabs his trousers off the bed.

A sudden rush of defiant unhappiness hits the detective, Sherlock automatically interprets it. _"Definitely not, you are not coming here."_

The emotions are strong and paralysing and Sherlock cries out. The genius lists forward and falls onto the hospital bed. Lestrade and Mycroft had stopped their conversation at the detective's sound and watch silently as the younger man topples over.

"This is what I'm talking about, Mycroft." Lestrade shouts, flailing in arm in Sherlock's general direction.

Sherlock can feel John panicking through the connection, he can feel the throbbing pain.

"Sherlock." The elder Holmes raises an eyebrow worriedly.

The detective shakes his head, trying to move.

"He's not happy." Sherlock states throwing all pretenses out the window, his only focus is the doctor. Through gritted teeth, the detective stands pulling his trousers up slowly. John's forced emotions are making him slow, practically paralysing the genius.

"Who's not happy?" Lestrade demands, looking between each of the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, whose eyes are blurred slightly and his thoughts are only focused on John and trying to get his pants on quickly as possible.

Sherlock finally pulls his pants up and heads to the door.

The DI stands in front of it, blocking the exit.

Another wave of unhappiness hits the genius and his hands fly to his head, pushing at his temples.

"Sherlock. What's going on?" Lestrade asks worriedly, crouching down to look into the detective's lowered eyes.

"I don't have time for this Mycroft." The detective yells angrily.

"Greg, let him through, I'll explain it on the way." Mycroft states, grabbing the DI's arm trying to pull him gently out of the way.

 _"I've narrowed it down, I'm on my way."_ The detective pushes to the doctor, his eyebrow's knitted and his teeth clenched.

"John's life is in danger?" Lestrade's questions but doesn't move.

Irrational fear strikes Sherlock, tearing his brain apart. The detective doubles over just as another wave of grief sets in.

"God damnit, yes." Sherlock shouts and Lestrade looks at the detective worried for a few seconds before moving from the door.

"I'm coming with you." The DI commands and looks to Mycroft. The politician nods and walks over to his younger brother.

"Ugh, Mycroft, he's afraid or at least trying to stop me with emotions." The detective bites out and Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's back, concerned at the turmoil his younger brother is experiencing.

"Let's go." The politician says and opens the door. Mycroft leans down, gripping one of Sherlock's arms and throwing it over his own shoulder, leading the emotionally crippled genius out of the room. Lestrade follows and pulls the door closed.

"He's trying to stop me from finding him." The detective states, moving a little faster but still hanging onto his brother. The three men jogging down the hallway.

They turn the corner and Lestrade pushes the door to the stairwell open, Sherlock moves away from his brother and flies down the stairs.

A sudden wave of grief hits the detective, making Sherlock grip the railing hard. The genius lunges forward and Mycroft grabs the detective's shirt, preventing the younger man from falling down the stairs.

The politician pulls Sherlock back and the genius grips the railing hard, listing forward slightly and his knees buckling. Mycroft hangs on and props the detective against the adjacent wall.

"Sherlock?" The politician ask worriedly, gripping the younger man's shoulders to steady him. Lestrade is right behind them, looking on with confusion.

Tears are streaming down the genius's face as the despair and grief surround him. It feel as if his heart is going to explode. The pain from the grief is paralysing, probably just how John intends it to be.

"He's desperate," Sherlock sobs, his knuckles white from gripping the railing.

 _"John, stop that."_ Sherlock transmits and he feels a light poking in his brain, but the emotions don't stop.

Mycroft grabs the younger man, tucking himself underneath Sherlock's arm, helping Sherlock to walk.

"Gregory, grab his other side." The Inspector obeys quietly and moves Sherlock's other arm to wrap around the DI's shoulder.

Mycroft and Lestrade guide the detective down the stairs carefully but hastily as the detective sobs and cringes with fear.

 _"I'm coming to get you and that's final."_ Sherlock sends and adds definite smugness, as the three men continue down the stairs.

"He panicking." Sherlock states through gritted teeth, new emotions are filtering through his brain.

"Come on, Mycroft, move it." The detective suddenly yells, anger coursing through him, along with more tears.

"He's...trying to...get me...to stop..." The genius snaps with a stutter.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screams out loud, his baritone echoing throughout the staircase, just as the three men make it to the landing on the first floor. The detective doubles over again and Mycroft and Lestrade are forced to lean too. The politician grips the detective's chest, steadying him.

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls, crouching in front of the genius.

 _"JOHN!"_ Sherlock yells into the connection. The detective is breathing heavy and his eyes are screwed shut.

Suddenly, the emotions stop and Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"He stopped." Sherlock calls out, placing his hands on his knees, catching his breath before straightening up to see Mycroft and Lestrade's worried expressions.

Abrupt shame, grief and regret hit the detective. _"I'm sorry."_

"No. No, No. No." Sherlock calls out loud, moving towards the exit of the stairwell.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft yells.

The detective's knees buckle as the calm feeling starts.

"SHITE!" Sherlock calls hitting the floor. "Check the warehouses that we were injured in." The detective gasps out, falling forward in the process. The politician catches him and guides him gently to the ground, Sherlock passing out completely.

The politician whips out his phone while looking frantically at the detective.

The DI remains standing, staring at the scene.

"What in the bloody hell is going on?" The DI demands, looking between the two Holmes brothers in confusion.

"I will explain later, Gregory." Mycroft says hurriedly, "Help me get him to the sedan."


	27. The Torturing of John H. Watson

It's bright. That's all the doctor can register, even with his eyes closed. The light filters through his eyelids and John lowers his head to get away from the intruding light.

The soldier contemplates opening his eyes but the pain in his head stops him. John tries to probe his exterior, looking for any wounds.

The doctor doesn't feel any dried blood on his skin, so the painful throbbing must be an after effect of the drug.

 _"Fantastic."_ John thinks bitterly.

He wonders idly what the drug had been. Why would Moriarty use it in the first place?

His curiosity is slowing creeping and the doctor opens his eyes slightly. The blinding undimmed light of the room hurts his eyes. John squints, trying to adjust himself to the luminous room. Through his adjustment phase, the soldier immediately catalogs the area through half-lidded eyes.

The walls are white and bare, just like the rest of the medium-sized room. John is on the only piece of furniture visibly, a hard, wooden chair.

The doctor struggles briefly against the restraints, a thick rope is wrapped intricately around his wrists, it's knot military and professional. It prevents John from getting the right leverage to break his thumb or struggle out of it.

The soldier remains calm, trying to sense minds outside the closed door, nothing greets him and he sighs with defeat.

Where is he?

No smell of chlorine hits the detective, they must be away from the pool. All John can sense is the faint smell of blood, which means Moriarty is close.

Why is he here?

John seeks out Sherlock's connection, finding it swiftly and opening the bond without thinking. He starts to think of the emotional code and how to communicate his location before suddenly stopping.

Moriarty's words echo throughout the doctor's memories.

_"I can't wait for Sherlock to visit later, once you've begged him to rescue you."_

The doctor panics and stops thinking.

 _"Moriarty knows."_ John declares to himself _"and he wants me to call for Sherlock."_ The doctor thinks with disgust, shuddering as he remembers the lasting touches of Moriarty's hands on his chest.

Moriarty wants Sherlock to show up and he intends for John to lead the detective right to them.

John is many things, a puppet is not one of them, not willingly anyway.

The soldier breaks the connection with rapid ease, protecting the detective, not wanting Sherlock to find wherever Moriarty is holding him.

It's too late, Sherlock already recognised John's intrusion. It isn't long before the telepath is bombarded with mental questions that he can't answer, protecting the genius in the long run.

 _"John. Where are you?"_ The detective is desperate, his thought is pushed forcibly into John's brain but the doctor doesn't, can't respond.

_"John, answer me."_

_"Are you hurt?"_

John is breaking, Sherlock's thoughts are getting more panicked and the turmoil is slowly causing John's resolve to crumble, so he sends one emotion.

John finds the lilac and honey and briefly opens the bond, sending one emotion. Contentment. _"I'm not hurt."_

He owes the detective that much, a peace of mind.

John is out of the bond again and locking his self-control in place, shutting the door firmly. The doctor can't afford to let Sherlock into his thoughts again, even though he wants to desperately ask how the genius is? Where was he hurt? How long was he out for? Is he okay now?

But the doctor can't, his jingles his self-control door making sure it's locked tight.

However, that doesn't stop Sherlock from pushing his own thoughts.

_"John. You're fine?"_

_"Where are you?"_

_"Why aren't you answering me?"_

_"John."_

_"John."_

The soldier ignores the genius, focusing on a plan to get out.

After several minutes, the detective stops pushing his frantic inquiries and John sighs in relief. The doctor is left in silence, a discomforting alternative to Sherlock's persistence but it keeps the detective safe and John's resolve intact.

Nothing happens for a few minutes until John's nose wrinkles subconsciously.

The smell is obnoxiousness and suddenly more prevalent, causing John to focus on not vomiting and putting Sherlock's silence on the back burner. _  
_

The doctor smells the criminal mastermind long before Moriarty actually walks into the room.

Blood integrates with John's thoughts and feelings. It's intense, metal smell fills John's nostrils and it's sickly bitter taste rests uncomfortably on John's mental taste buds.

The doctor opens his mouth to breath, hoping the smell of blood will dissipate, even though it's unlikely.

The soldier struggles briefly, trying to get away from the copious amount of blood senses. Physically trying to make it go away. John doesn't dare make a mental connection with the man, the blood is already too much, John doesn't want it to get any worse.

Plus, there is nothing to gain, the last time John connected with Moriarty and got past the blood, the mastermind's thoughts were vacant. John's power is useless against the Irishman.

The door creaks open and John stills his body, his restrained arms going slack against the tight ropes. The small Irishman saunters into the white room, his steps springy and calculated.

The man is excited and John resists the urge to spit nasty, degrading comments at the disgusting creature in front of him.

"Good Morning, Johnny!" Moriarty exclaims, clapping his hands together greedily, an evil leer on his face.

"Moriarty." John remarks with contempt, straightening with confidence and disinterest.

The suited man walks closer to the doctor, the blood growing stronger with each advancing step.

"Sherlock isn't here yet." Moriarty remarks in a mock sadness. "I thought you would have called for help already."

"What do you want?" John questions, ignoring the evil man, subconsciously trying to back away from the approaching incorporeal, metallic crimson.

"Dull, you always ask that question." is Moriarty's answer, his footsteps stopping suddenly and his head cocking to one side, studying the doctor.

"I believe the last time I was in this situation my question was 'Why are you here?'," John remarks snidely, "It's technically different." The doctor turns his head away in boredom.

The consulting criminal raises his eyebrows and chuckles slightly.

"You have a good memory, Johnny." Moriarty comments, starting to come closer again. John inhales and exhales with force, the copper taste on his actual tongue.

The doctor shrugs in response, still not looking at the Irish genius.

"Why am I here? What do you want?" John asks again, this time with determination.

Moriarty doesn't answer, he stares at John with intense eyes and a hard expression. The doctor, once he figures out he isn't going to get a response, goes back to analysing the room.

"I know." Moriarty states bluntly, the doctor's eyes whip to find Moriarty standing mere centimeters in front of John. The doctor is breathing with shallow inhales, the blood intense and making him dizzy.

"You know what?" The doctor states lazily, trying to keep his face as neutral and unassuming as possible.

Moriarty narrows his eyes with contemplation, advancing another centimeter. "I know _this_." The criminal mastermind remarks and in a sudden movement, Moriarty's finger is pushing onto John's forehead.

The doctor erupts in pain, whimpering uncontrollably as the blood intensifies making John gag on the smell, the taste, the encompassing blood.

John tries to shake the finger off his forehead, thrashing his head side to side, trying to dislodge the offending touch.

"Stop." John calls firmly, images beginning to flow from deep within John's mind. The doctor starts to see red and then short burst of sand mixes with the flowing red.

"STOP!" John yells and pushes himself back, the force of his movement sends him careening backwards, swiftly breaking Moriarty's connection and causing the wooden chair to clamber backwards.

The doctor lands on his back, jamming his fingers in between the hard surface of the chair and the cement flooring. John yells as the sharp pain emits from his limbs.

As the telepath thuds to the floor, John's breathing is laboured, his exhales shaky and heavy. John tries to roll to the side but the chair prevents him.

Moriarty's face is suddenly in the doctor's space, causing him to flinch backwards, shuffling the unrelenting wood to squish his fingers more. John grits his teeth at the discomforting pain.

"Well," Moriarty starts, crouching next to John. "That must be uncomfortable."

John turns his head to the side, his headache worse and the overwhelming presence of blood causing more of a discomfort than being on the ground.

"Now, Johnny." Moriarty scolds at the doctor's apparent disgust. "It isn't-"

"How do you know?" The doctor ask bluntly, not caring about interrupting the criminal. Moriarty raises his eyebrows and laughs. An eerily, unsettling laugh that hurts John's ears and causes his head to throb. The consulting criminal stands up languidly, pacing absentmindedly and lazily around the room, occasionally looking at the doctor struggling on the floor.

"It's a secret." Moriarty whispers gleefully after a few minutes.

"Who am I going to tell? I'm not leaving this room alive, we both know that." John remarks confidently, the compression from the doctor's weight and the angle of his arms making John's limbs tingle with numbing sensations.

Moriarty seems to contemplate John's comment with a narrow concentration. "What makes you think you aren't leaving here alive?" Moriarty challenges.

The doctor is taken aback, the question is shocking. John honestly thinks this is the end game, the final battle, and Moriarty is definitely at an advantage. It's not as if John has given up, he is just accepting Moriarty's reality.

"Come on," John states finally, raising his eyebrows at Moriarty. "Do you really intend on keeping me alive?"

Now it's Moriarty's time for a challenging question. "No, I suppose not." The soldier is calm at Moriarty's realisation, even though the criminal mastermind just verbalised John's death sentence.

"So, there is no harm in telling me then." John comments, wiggling slightly trying to reposition himself, the wooden back of the chair digging into his arms and back painfully.

"I died." Moriarty states bluntly, looking directly at John's face. The doctor ceases movement and stares back at the criminal mastermind. To anybody else, this statement would have been confusing but John knows the full reason behind Moriarty's comment.

John doesn't say anything, he stares in shock, even when Moriarty starts to move towards the telepath, crouching down again.

The doctor flinches away but Moriarty is too fast, a hand is cupping John's neck firmly and a finger is placed on his forehead.

John's head explodes, he can literally see the river of blood flowing, intertwining with his thoughts, tainting his memories.

An image that John doesn't recognise floats across his mind. The doctor latches onto it, hoping for relief from the blood presence. As the memory becomes clear, John is bombarded with more blood, a unfathomable amount. The doctor thrashes and pushes the thought away, but the memory stays planted, playing for the doctor against his will.

The soldier closes his eyes in pain, his headache erupting in agony and the unfamiliar memory breaking his control.

The memory is simple, John is seeing the image through the memory holder's own eyes. The brick beneath the owner's feet, his shoes clicking and walking fast.

John breathing is erratic as the memory unfolds. Suddenly the image in John's mind fills with panic, John's emotions are mixing with the strong memory.

"Stop." John shouts.

"No, you will feel how I died." Moriarty whispers into John's ear, causing the doctor to loll his head away from the voice. It didn't even occur to the doctor that it was Moriarty's image that he is seeing, that how bad the blood and powerful memory is messing with the blond's deduction skills, what little John actually picked up from the detective.

Suddenly, John stops breathing, non-physical hands are around the doctor's neck cutting off his air supply. John is watching Moriarty's memory with apt interest.

Moriarty is no long walking, he is pushed against a wall, staring his attacker in the face. The man's face is hidden in shadow and John can't focus on anything. The hands that were once on Moriarty's neck are now on John's, the vision blending with reality.

John gasps and struggles, trying to get out of Moriarty's grip. The doctor is suffocating and he begins to see black spots dancing on the outside of his vision.

Choked sounds emit from John's throats, he pleads shamelessly but the memory becomes stronger and soon John passes out from lack of oxygen, not before hearing Moriarty's evil laugh.

* * *

He wakes a couple minutes later, the bodiless hands gone along with Moriarty's forced tactile contact.

It takes a couple more seconds for the telepath to realise that his chair had been set upright, relieving the pressure in his back and limbs, the doctor sighs internally with relief, his breathing still irregular.

It takes another minute or so, but John finally is able to get his breathing calm and readjusted for air intake. John can still feel the squeezing hands on his neck and panics slightly at how strong Moriarty's flashback was, how it was able to claim John and make him witness the actual feeling of the criminal mastermind dying.

The doctor shudders at the power and tries to shake the horrible memory out of his head.

John coughs suddenly, his throat sore and scratchy.

"My heart stopped beating and my attacker took my belongings." Moriarty states and John opens his eyes, looking tiredly for the criminal mastermind. The Irishman stands against the far wall, just beside the door, leaning against it with comfort.

"Huh? You? Caught in a mugging?" John tries to reply with a smarmy tone but his wheezing and deep voice botches the attempt. Instead John's voice is quiet and weak, the soldier noting the morbid irony between Moriarty's flashback and the reason Sherlock is currently safe.

The doctor coughs again, long and deep to clear the hoarseness of his voice. "How pedestrian."

The criminal doesn't respond verbally, but his face twists momentarily in a scowl before smoothing out and continuing. "The woman who found me gave me CPR and after a couple of minutes my heart started again," is how Moriarty responds, ignoring the doctor's comment.

"I lived." Moriarty exclaims brightly. "Although, my brain was never really the same." The criminal adds looking straight at John with a devilish smile. John's eyes perk up and the thought comes to him. Moriarty has an ability.

John stares in shock, he just thought the mastermind was powerful, not necessarily capable of having a gift. The realisation sends shivers down John's back.

"You have a gift." John states, his voice gaining it's usual tone back. The criminal mastermind just stares at John with a insatiable grin.

"I do." The Irishman smiles.

It explains everything, the powerful reach of Moriarty's mind, the ability to subdue John with the evil man's thoughts, the blood.

John's head reels, the doctor has never met another person with a power. The feeling is strange and unnerving. This is a bit not good.

No wonder the man has a criminal organization so vast.

The doctor, despite the dangerous situation, is extremely curious. What can the criminal mastermind do? How powerful is he? Can he control emotions like himself?

John stops with his internal question, his eyes find Moriarty who his grinning with pleasure. The look is sickening and John realises he doesn't want to know. The doctor does not want to be in Moriarty's head more than necessary, if not at all.

"I find you intriguing Johnny." Moriarty says playfully interrupting John's thoughts, moving closer to the doctor. "Granted your nobility is dull and frankly worthless, but your telepathy makes up for it."

Moriarty's blatant proclamation of John's ability causes the doctor stiffens, not willing to agree or deny Moriarty's suspicions, even though John knows it's useless. The criminal mastermind already knows, isn't John just wasting energy by reveling in denial?

"You know, Johnny, I'm a genius and I have a powerful gift." Moriarty states, gazing upon the soldier. "But, your mind, it's extravagant and complex. Your gift is extraordinary and even more powerful than mine." The suited man's tone is slightly sad but something bright and calculating flickers in the mastermind's eyes.

John is too shocked from the situation to respond. He stares back at the Irishman and remains wordless, cataloging Moriarty's look and confession.

"I know all about you Johnny dearest." Moriarty continues, ignoring John's speechlessness.

"How?" John sputters clumsily.

"Oh come now, another telepath running around London and you don't expect me to keep tabs." Moriarty exclaims.

"You can read minds?" The doctor asks stupidly and Moriarty laughs.

"Yes, although, that is the only thing I can do." The mastermind remarks. "And I can't read yours." Moriarty adds, his expression full of curiosity.

John reels. Moriarty can read his thoughts. Why? And why can't John read Moriarty's thoughts? Is it important?

 _"Of course it's bloody well important, Watson."_ John accosts himself. _"You are in the presence of another telepath and neither of you can read each others' mind._ "

John realises that if Moriarty can't read his mind then that Irishman doesn't know that he smells like blood, he doesn't know how powerful he really is, how easily he captivates the doctor. And John is not going to be the one to tell him.

"Unlike you, Johnny." Moriarty continues, suspending John's thoughts.

"I, however, know about your white noise, which you've expanded the range significantly. It's silent right now, isn't it?" Moriarty observes.

John is alarmed, he didn't even register it, of course the doctor and his detective have been working on the range and it's proven successful. Through practice, John's white noise has the ability to be silenced within the proximity of London. If Sherlock is in London, John's white noise is silent.

Which means John is still in London. The thought causes hope for the doctor, but John keeps his face neutral, not giving anything away.

"I'll take that as a yes." Moriarty chuckles, pacing around the room with slow steps, circling the doctor like a vulture.

"I also know that you can control people's emotions." Moriarty continues, his tone is quiet and beguiling, dripping with hypnotic charm.

The doctor doesn't say anything, Moriarty paces behind him and John stares forward, not willing to give in to the lunatic.

"Which begs the question, how come I'm still standing and not on the floor in a coma?" Moriarty purrs. "Surely, your self-control isn't that noble."

The Irishman drags a hand across the back of John's shoulders, causing the doctor to stiffen and shiver at the same time.

John is confused, the man is messing with him, showing his true evil. John remains quiet, focusing on not answering, blood encasing John and the doctor has to force the bile down.

A hand suddenly cups John's chin, forcing the doctor to tilt his head back.

John's eyes immediately close at the forced memories and onslaught of blood.

A dead soldier lay in front of John, the sand stained crimson and the soldier's mouth moving with inaudible pleas.

"Am I special, Johnny? Or do you just like me too much to put me in a coma?" The doctor can hear Moriarty's faint enticements but John can't respond, he is focused on the dead soldier. John tries to go to him but the doctor can't move, something is immobilising him. Fear? Anxiety?

John looks down to see his feet sinking into the bloody sand. The doctor is actually stuck. John looks to the soldier with panicked eyes, he tries struggling out of the sand but to no avail. He has to watch the soldier die, his blood mixing with the sand blood.

The hand is gone and John's head snaps forward, Moriarty laughs but the image doesn't dissipate.

John turns his head and throws up onto the white floor.

His nose is running freely and the blood mixing with his vomit.

Moriarty is torturing him. The lunatic is using his own powers to manipulate the doctor, showing John distorted images. John recognised that soldier but the memory was altered, obviously. John, originally, had saved that boy, Private Stanley Lowell, barely nineteen. He has a sister and two younger brothers.

The altered memory is tugging at John's mind. How is Moriarty doing this? How is he manipulating John's memories?

John is a army doctor, a soldier, someone who knows how to resist torturing techniques and that's exactly what John intends to do, resist Moriarty's torture to the best of his ability.

But, the army never prepared him for this, they never prepared him for mental warfare.

John's breathing is heavy but the soldier sits up straight, with new determination, John lifts his head and finds Moriarty grinning like mad.

"Oh, Captain Watson has come out to play." Moriarty exclaims, wringing his hands together in elation. John glares at the Irishman, his face taunt and unrelenting.

_"John, I'm coming, hang on."_

Sherlock thought is sudden and practically catches John off guard, the detective had been so silent up until this point that John almost forgot about him, almost.

The doctor panics slightly, the detective can't come, that exactly what Moriarty wants. He doesn't physically move but he sends waves and waves of paralyzing, defiant unhappiness to the genius, hoping to stop Sherlock long enough to be safe. _"Definitely not, you are not coming here."_

John sends the emotional code over and over, hoping that the detective understand the gravity of the situation.

_"I've narrowed it down. I'm on my way."_

John's face must have showed something, because Moriarty's grin widen.

"Sherlock's on his way then?" The Dublin man questions but John turns his head in disgust, his throat scratchy and his mouth tastes like blood and vomit.

The doctor sends paralysing fear and grief, he is desperate to stop the detective.

 _"John, Stop that."_ Sherlock voice is sad and John opens up the connection to see the detective gripping a railing somewhere, trying to reign in his emotions.

 _"I'm coming to get you and that's final._ "

"I can't wait until he gets here." Moriarty squeals and for a second, John thinks the man is going to jump for joy.

"You are interesting." Moriarty states raising his eyebrow with interest. "But the detective is unpredictable."

"Leave him out of this." John says through gritted teeth.

"I can't, Johnny." Moriarty smirks. "If I hadn't picked him as my worthy opponent, I would have never found you."

"Stop." John states firmly, his restrained fist clenching.

"I think it's time to return the favor." The criminal mastermind says before starting to pace again.

The doctor stares dumbfounded. He wants to ask what Moriarty means? How will he return the favor?

John doesn't have to be a great detective to know that Sherlock probably wouldn't get out of the exchange alive.

The doctor panics, his thoughts are frantic and jumbled. He continues to send paralysing emotions to the genius and watching as Sherlock stumbles due to the grief, the anger, whatever John is sending.

 _"JOHNATHAN!"_ Sherlock voice is loud and it causes the doctor to wince. John's headache stabs his brain with agony and his nosebleed is severe, and suddenly the doctor stops.

He sends a final emotional code, shame, grief and regret. _"I'm sorry."_

John closes his eyes, ignoring the criminal who is watching in amazement.

_"John."_

With one swift thought, John sends a strong calm feeling into Sherlock. John watches as the detective falls wherever he is, his eyes closing in the process.

Faint colors meet John's probes and the doctor backs out. The detective is unconscious.

John's guilty is consuming but the doctor realises it's for the greater good. If John hadn't knocked Sherlock out, the detective would have stomped into wherever they are and gotten himself killed in the process. It's for Sherlock's protection.

Anything to keep the detective safe.

John opens his eyes to look at the mastermind. Moriarty says nothing, he continues to stare with curiosity.

"He's not coming." John says exhausted, lowering his head slightly, watching the blood drip from his nose and onto his pants.

Moriarty stares and John tries to keeps his eyes open.

"Just kill me already." John calls bluntly, tiredly. He doesn't have a lot of time before Sherlock wakes again and this is his last tactic to keeping Sherlock safe for good.

"No, no, no, no, no, Johnny Boy." Moriarty shakes his head playfully. "I'm afraid that isn't going to happen."

"What?" John cries, his face full of desperation. He looks longingly into the mastermind's eyes.

"You are powerful, too powerful." Moriarty exclaims, John hangs his head in weary resignation. "I would be an idiot to throw away my own personal telepath."

"You said-" John cries weakly, fighting his attack, the headache and the nosebleed, with poor results.

"I'm soo changeable." Moriarty sings before putting a finger onto John's forehead, causing the blood to envelop the doctor once more. John's memories are strong, sand and blood and London and blood.

The image this time is of cobblestone, a boy lays crumpled on the ground. His skin glows red, blood seeping out of his pores. John recognises the boy as Ian Jeremiah.

"No." John whimpers, trying to shrug off Moriarty's finger. John squeezes his eyes shut. Jeremiah opens his eyes suddenly, the irises are a shimmering crimson. John is forced to look directly into the unnatural, blood red eyes.

"You killed me." The boy's voice is weak and accusing.

"NO!" John screams, thrashing and writhing. The finger is gone and John's breath is stuck in his lungs.

The doctor can't breath, fatigue, exhaustion, panic, agony. It's all taking it toll on the doctor.

"You are too interesting of a specimen to kill, John Watson." Moriarty exclaims before John passes out.


	28. The End Of Sherlock Holmes

The detective lays across the back seat of the sedan in a restful sleep. Lestrade just stares, his face narrow and concentrated.

 _"What in the bloody hell is going on?"_ The DI thinks to himself, watching the skinny form snooze. Lestrade thinks back to the staircase not fifteen minutes ago. The genius had just gone down without any warning and yet, Mycroft knew, somehow, what was going to happen. The politician moved like he had a sixth sense, faster than the DI has ever seen the man move.

There is something wrong, seriously wrong, with this situation.

The DI tears his eyes away from the genius and finds his boyfriend's face. Mycroft's eyes haven't left his phone, fingers typing fiercely on a keypad, the only noise in the car.

Occasionally, the elder Holmes will look up at his brother, making sure Sherlock is still here, in the car. Double checking that the detective is all right, it's the closest thing to worry that Lestrade has ever seen.

The politician looks up slowly, his eyes reluctantly leaving his mobile screen and the DI watches in curiosity.

Mycroft's face, usually a solid mask, is splintering and emotions are getting through. Lestrade suddenly knows why Mycroft continues to look up, the politician is checking one thing.

He's making sure that Sherlock is still asleep.

 _"Why?"_ Lestrade thinks to himself, irritated and confused by all of his many questions and the fact that none of them are being answered.

Contrary to popular belief, Greg is not an idiot, at least not when it comes to the Holmes brothers. He has learned from experience not to interrupt when a Holmes is concentrating, one never pressures a Holmes.

So, the DI waits as patiently as he can, hoping that his questions get answered or even have an answer.

For lack of anything better to do, Lestrade takes up a silent vigil, watching the detective, his face lax in sleep.

As his vigil goes on, as do his thoughts. Greg tries to shake his head in an effort to dispel them but they don't stop and Lestrade gives up and lets his thoughts roam free.

Is Sherlock really asleep? The DI still doesn't know what happened, the genius just collapsed for no reason and Mycroft acted like he had seen it before.

_What does that have to do with John?_

The doctor is in trouble, that much is obvious, but what kind of trouble? And how does Sherlock even know?

The detective was frantic in the hospital room, doubling over in pain and crying. Lestrade has never seen the genius lose control of his emotions like that. What changed?

The DI learned long ago to not ask questions out loud, it's much more simple and far less dangerous to go with the flow, and at the time that made sense. Offer what help he could and follow the Holmes brother until answers were provided.

It wouldn't be the first time something like that has happened.

But now, the Yarder just sees a passed out detective with no explanations and as much as he is reveling in his patience the DI finds it getting harder and harder to keep quiet.

Why did Sherlock pass out anyway?

What did that?

 _Who_ did that?

Lestrade is buried deep in silence and unanswered questions, each thought revolving around in his head and a dull headache is starting to form.

None of it makes any sense and Lestrade just shakes his head in defeat and his brain hurts as he tries to will the doubts and questions away.

Just as Greg pushes all of the thoughts away and decides to focus solely on breathing and their destination, Mycroft speaks for the first time.

"Gregory." Mycroft says softly and the DI feels a hand lay gently on his knees. Lestrade calms significantly into the gesture and looks up at the elder Holmes.

The politician's phone lays in his lap and his eyes are only looking at the sliver haired man.

The question come flowing back, so many filter through Lestrade's brain and it's overwhelming.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" The DI whispers, his curiosity desperate and encompassing.

The elder Holmes sighs and furrows his brow.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to be blunt, we don't have a lot of time." The politician states. The DI glances from Sherlock's still form back to his boyfriend in confusion, but nods anyway, thinking it best that he remain quiet.

"John's a telepath." Mycroft deadpans. Greg's mouth shoots open, his eyes widen with disbelief. The Inspector seems to contemplate what Mycroft said for a minute before his eyes start to flash dangerously in a fit of anger.

He's lying. Why would Mycroft lie?

"If you don't want to tell me, I get it." The DI spits, uncharacteristically angry and looks away from the politician. It's obvious that the elder Holmes doesn't want to the tell the truth, probably some national security reason, but there is no reason to lie.

Mycroft sighs, squeezing Greg's leg. "I'm afraid I'm entirely serious, my dear." Mycroft's tone is gentler, yet more commanding at the same time. Greg's head whips back and stares into Mycroft's eyes and for some insane, Holmesian reason, Lestrade trust the older man.

Lestrade stares back in bewilderment and suddenly doesn't know what to feel. Is it true? How? Why?

Greg, his emotions confused and out of whack, does the only thing he can think of, the man laughs. A nervous and amused giggle.

"A telepath?" The DI asks incredulous, shaking his head. "No way."

"Think about it, Gregory." Mycroft begins, "There have been plenty of cases in which you found yourself confused by their communication tactics." The older man states pointing to the detective in the process.

"Yes, but that's just Sherlock. He always does that." Lestrade tries to reason with himself, glancing at the genius before returning his eyes once again to Mycroft.

"They have conversations in their minds." Mycroft states bluntly and Lestrade's head is reeling.

"What?" The DI gapes, his eyes darting from face to face.

"It's how, at crime scenes, they solve it without talking." The politician says earnestly, picking up his mobile once again, it's vibration echoing the car.

"That's because John can read minds?" The DI inquires.

"Yes." Mycroft answers patiently, glaring at his screen.

"Did John make Sherlock pass out?" Lestrade questions, his eyes scanning the detective in a new light.

"Gregory, John is powerful. He calmed my brother down enough to lull him into sleep." The politician remarks, one of his hands never leaving Lestrade's knee.

The DI stares in confusion, his mind going back to the stairwell. Sherlock seemed everything but calm, but Lestrade supposes that's not the relevant point of the matter.

Lestrade just hums in response, concentrating on the detective and his own thoughts.

The DI is not a brilliant man, or so the detective says, but Greg is a good man, a man who knows how to take things in stride and ironically doesn't need a lot of detail.

So instead of asking a billion questions that neither one of them have the energy nor the time for, Lestrade speaks one more sentence and then leaves the conversation alone.

"I would have pegged Sherlock for the telepath." Lestrade deadpans, looking at the detective while Mycroft looks up from his mobile and lets out a chuckle.

* * *

John slowly wakes, his mind hurting and his body aching. The doctor is transfer swiftly and urgently into soldier mode. He ignores the pain and the aches and he opens his eyes with force and determination.

He hasn't been moved, the white bland walls look back at him, mocking with entrapment. The room is the same, but the blood and vomit have been cleaned up, making the room as colorless and pristine as ever and John wonders idly how long he has been unconscious.

John tries to keep himself detached from the white walls and lack of furniture and he wonders how long it took Moriarty to get bored of John's forced unconsciousness.

There is no new information from his scanning so the doctor turns his attention back to his own body.

John rolls his shoulders, causing the chair to creak and the ropes to tighten. He aches all over, his head, his arms, his wrists, his legs, there is no way to know how long he has been passed out with the amount of soreness. The blood from his nosebleed has long since dried and John can feel it crusting on his face. He must look a right mess. The faint smell of his own blood causes the doctor's memories to flood back as he tries to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

Altered memories of the blood reminds John of Moriarty causing the soldier to shiver with apprehension and a tiny bit of fear.

John shakes his head, trying to get back into his soldier mode and away from his fears and memories.

A sudden wave hits him and the doctor leans back, involuntarily trying to get away from it. The metallic intrusion lingers with John, it's smell stronger then before. Is John more susceptible to the sense of Moriarty's blood now? How close is the evil genius?

John tries to ignore his mental warnings and questions, choosing to concentrate and think.

For a second, the doctor is tempted to open up the connection between Sherlock and himself, but instantly decides against. The doctor's shame and guilt coming in full force. He had to knock the detective out. He had to prevent the six foot, angry, coat flying genius from barging into John's captivity and ending up getting injured.

Despite keeping the younger man safe, John still feels the guilt. He used his gift on purpose and against his boyfriend, two different situations that should never have happened.

Suddenly the doctor is angry, angry at being manipulated by Moriarty, the evil man making John bend his rules and harm Sherlock.

If the doctor is honest with himself, however, he knows full well that it's not entirely Moriarty's fault. The doctor did it, even if it was a subtle coercion.

The detective will never forgive him and John doesn't expect him too.

The doctor hopes silently that the detective is still passed out, John was careful not to put him in a coma but that doesn't mean the detective will have a restful sleep. He is going to be angry when he wakes up.

If he isn't sleeping, is he on his way here?

Did he really figure out where John is?

Did Moriarty move them?

John throws that question out the window, the room is too much alike the first room, they have to be the same room. It has an industrial feel and warehouse-like appearance. There are tons of warehouses in London, which one is he in?

Sherlock found out, he knows where they are and he probably even knows why Moriarty took John.

Why did the criminal mastermind take him?

What does Moriarty want? Could it really just be as simple as his own personal telepath? The evil man can read minds, what could he possibly want John for?

The force of blood hits John like a wall and the doctor's thoughts are suspended as the door creaks open.

John fights through the onslaught and tries to keep his face neutral.

"Johnny." The voice coos before a body enters the room, causing the doctor to shiver. John doesn't move, he holds his ground, not even wincing when the criminal mastermind's face peaks around the door, pushing his body into John's cell.

Moriarty walks in, impeccable and put together like usual. His stance is predatory and firm but John doesn't notice, trying to keep the blood at bay and away from the features of his face.

He fails. The consulting criminal moves into the room and shuts the door with a loud click. He advances slowly, only stopping centimeters in front of the doctor.

"You can smell me." The criminal mastermind says bluntly, leaning in closer to the doctor who in turns leans away from the stench.

John's mouth gapes in shock at the bluntness and also the accuracy of the man in front of him.

"I thought you said you couldn't read my mind?" John questions anxiously. Was Moriarty lying before when he said he could read the doctor's thoughts?

"I can't." Moriarty shrugs simply before backing up slightly. "Your emotions radiate off your skin. You are too easy, Johnny Boy."

The doctor doesn't say anything, he focuses solely on trying to make his face completely neutral, but a shiver runs through his body uncontrollably and that causes Moriarty to laugh.

The soldier is losing many things, his patience, his willingness to play games but most of all, John is losing the ability to sit in the room any longer.

"What do you want, Jim?" The doctor snaps. It's the first time that the doctor has called him by his first name but John is too tired and too bored to care.

The criminal mastermind doesn't finch, in fact, the man smiles wider, his teeth shimmering with sickening perfection.

"I'm a powerful man, but I can't manipulate people as well as you can, deary." The criminal mastermind begins, "you have the ability to make people feel emotions that you falsify." The criminal puts a finger on John's torso and the doctor moves slightly, trying to push it off. Thank god no images come, the soldier is still too weak from the last attack.

"Think about it, that would be extremely helpful in my organization." Moriarty wrings his hands together gleefully and John turns in disgust. "I can only hear what they are thinking presently, but you, Johnny, you can delve into their thoughts and control them whilst telling me every thought they've ever thought. It's positively exciting."

John scoffs, no way would the doctor be helping the mad man.

"If you think that I would willingly work for you, let alone digging into people's brains intent to harm, you are sadly mistaken." The doctor spits through gritted teeth.

"Why?" Moriarty snaps, equally angry. "You did it for Sherlock. You killed that boy, Ian Jeremiah."

John freezes, how did Moriarty know about that?

 _"Moriarty knows about everything."_ John thinks to himself bitterly.

"I didn't-" John starts,

"You made that boy fall, Johnny." Moriarty states menacingly, advancing slowly upon the doctor. "You are naturally a bad person, my dear."

John shakes his head and stammers, "It was self-preservation."

"Your rules." Moriarty laughs with amusement and John stares."I know about your rules and let me tell you, your rules make you weak." He spits.

"You are a killer and you will fit perfectly in my organization." The Irishman snickers, his face bending down to look John in the eye.

"I'm not a killer." John replies angrily, "It was a necessity, that _rapist_ was going to kill us."

The criminal mastermind laughs and straightens up, he paces around the room again lazily. "You are dangerous, and I like it." Moriarty whispers behind the doctor, leaning down, his breath against John's ear. The soldier scowls in repulsion and leaning forward, trying his best not to be touched by the criminal.

"I will never work for you as long as I live." John snaps with finality, straightening with strength and courage.

"We will see about that." The Irishman sings with pleasure. John doesn't know what to say or do.

"Sherlock will find me." is John's snide reply, trying to push Moriarty's buttons. The doctor is angry and hurt and trying to access his percentage for surviving this meeting.

His chances are dwindling and the doctor is not going to go without a fight.

"How? You didn't call him. He's still passed out at your flat." Moriarty's grin is scary and John's face briefly flashes terror before the soldier part of him gets in control. "You didn't want to get him involved."

How can this man know John so well? He really has to work on masking his face better.

"That's fine with me, I got what I wanted." Moriarty comments, walking around John and facing the older man. "Sherlock means little to me now."

"I don't know how to say this to make you understand." John sighs, lowering his head in frustration. "I will not work for you. Not now, not ever and never willingly." The doctor's head bolts up and his eyes find the Irishman, twisting his words with as much hate and conviction as he can.

The criminal sighs dejectedly, turning away from John slightly, "I was afraid you were going to say that." He says, picking up his pacing routine. Moriarty is behind John again and the doctor doesn't move, he does not give in to the evil genius's taunts.

"I don't like getting my hands dirty, but for you, it's a simple pleasure." The criminal mastermind remarks, his face warping into a grin that John cannot see.

Moriarty lifts his hand silently, hunching over and placing a finger on John's cheek, caressing the doctor with tenderness.

John's head burns and the blood intensifies, an image starts to burn and the doctor thrashes. John squeezes his eyes shut uncontrollably and is forced to have his full attention on the image that Moriarty is altering.

John is in the sitting room, drinking a cup of tea. A normal depiction of a normal day at 221B Baker Street. With the small exception that instead of the usual flooring, the sitting room is sinking in a pool of blood. John watches himself in horror as he does nothing but continuing to sip his cuppa and read the newspaper.

Suddenly, Sherlock bursts into the room, clad in his usual scarf and dark coat. As the detective is peeling off his layers, John starts to notice the bruises and cuts upon the high cheekbones. The detective is cradling himself as if injured and John wants to call out to him but his memory self is oblivious. Without warning, the detective falls to the floor, cradling his side and wincing in pain and memory John does nothing.

Choked noises are coming from the memory and John watches in horror as Sherlock drowns in the blood, too weak to lift his head up. Red pools around the genius's face as his mouth gapes open, gasping for breath.

John screams in horror.

"SHERLOCK!" Pain, grief and fear envelope the doctor and he writhes and flails against his restraints. Sherlock's body is flailing and there is nothing that John can do.

"SHERLOCK!" The doctor screams again and suddenly the image is gone, along with Moriarty's finger. John inhales a shaky breathe, the pain throbbing and the image scarring.

John's breathing is erratic and shallow and the doctor is becoming anxious.

"What are you seeing Johnny Boy," The Irishman whispers playfully and pushes his finger onto John's cheek again.

John wiggles and yells out in pain, blood envelops him and another image comes to John's mind.

Sherlock sits upon the couch, blood seeping out of his head. The doctor calls out for him but the detective doesn't respond. Ropes are wrapped thickly around the lanky man, making Sherlock immobile.

John instantly recognises this memory from the intruder. John is on the floor, struggling as the intruder lays on top of him, his eyes crimson and hungry.

The struggling soldier yells for him to get off but the intruder doesn't move, his hands are around John's neck, squeezing and holding firm.

Suddenly, a gun is pointed at Sherlock and John freaks, he moves and thrashes, struggles and writhes. He knows where this memory goes and he does not want to relive it.

The couch cushions suddenly turn blood red, pulling Sherlock further into them. Their tendrils wrapping around the detective and Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. John yells and cries in terror.

A loud bang echoes the flat and John stills, immediately looking over to the genius. A large hole seeps blood, right between the detective's eyes.

"NO!" The doctor screams.

The image is literally painful and John finds himself pushing back, hard, with his feet.

The chair creaks under all of the pressure and starts to break apart when John hits the ground.

John rolls and squirms on the floor, trying to make the pain, the fear, and the grief go away. He screams, long and loud, expelling every emotion.

The doctor can't help it, he would rather not give Moriarty the satisfaction, but honestly, the criminal mastermind is the last thing on the soldier's mind.

John is focused on not dying from his head exploding.

"Shush, Johnny Boy." The doctor vaguely hears the evil genius and doesn't even bother obeying his request.

He deliberately (even though he is in excruciating pain, he is still a soldier in crisis) rolls around the floor, causing more stress on the chair. He feels his ropes slacken a little bit and John is rubbing against them furiously, trying to get out.

Moriarty steps closer to John and the doctor yells extra loud, right in the man's face. With a look of disgust the pretentious criminal backs up, turning his back away from John.

The doctor struggles a bit more and finally, his wrist are free from the ropes, the chair starting to break apart. John doesn't move his limbs, keeping them still against the remnants of his bonds until the mastermind comes closer again, this time with an angry glint in his eye.

"You are rather fascinating." Moriarty spits and leans down, holding his finger out in preparation. John moves swiftly, grabbing Moriarty by the wrist and pulls, yanking the man across him, taking Moriarty by surprise. The evil genius lands on top of John but the doctor quickly maneuvers out from underneath him, sitting up and placing a knee against his back.

The door burst open and a gunshot rings out causing John to fall to the ground. He doesn't recognise the pain until he hits the hard floor. Moriarty is up, his movements jerky and angry. John writhes on the ground, gripping his stomach. Blood seeps out of his midsection and the doctor grunts in pain.

"That. Was. Very. Rude." Moriarty snaps through gritted teeth and then a finger finds John's forehead again and for a moment John wishes for death.

This memory doesn't have images, everything is blood, simple and flowing crimson. John is screaming, gasping for breath, his head hurts with such ferocity that his gunshot wound feels likes it's being lick on by bunnies. Razors cut against his brain, knifes saw at his memories, blood is squirting everywhere.

It's like John is caught in a river of blood, the doctor can't move, he can't breathe, he is drowning and his paralysing fear and pain is slowly killing him. It's the worst set of emotions that John has ever felt in his life. The doctor is screaming and yelling, not bothering with pretenses.

A foot stomps onto John's midsection and the doctor cries out, his head lolling and his fight gone.

"You will die here, Dr, Watson." Moriarty spits and Moran's foot pushes harder before letting up.

The door creaks open and Moran and Moriarty are gone, again.

John starts to weep alone in the room he is going to die in.

* * *

Sherlock bolts upright, startling the two other men in the room. The detective's brain is is exploding in pain, fear, exhaustion, and grief. Sherlock maneuvers himself so his head is in his hands, the pads of his fingers gripping his hair, anything to try and stop the emotions.

Sherlock can tell right away that the connection is strong and unintentional and Moriarty is torturing him.

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls him, and the genius can hear the DI shuffle closer. Sherlock moves quickly through the pain. He stands up and rushes out of the sitting room, only one thing on his mind.

"John." Sherlock yells over his shoulder as his only explanation.

Another wave of pain sends the detective careening to the floor of the landing abruptly.

"This is getting ridiculous." Sherlock screams, writhing uncontrollably, his back arching, a echoing scream floats through the detective's thoughts. He instantly recognises it as John's scream.

"What's going on?" Mycroft bends down next to the genius, watching in horror as he younger brother suffers.

"I can hear him, Mycroft." Sherlock says, "I don't know how, but I can hear him screaming." The detective is gripping his temples and gritted his teeth. "They are torturing him."

"Sherlock-" The politician puts a hand on the younger Holmes's head trying to comfort the man.

"We have to get there now." is Sherlock demanding remark and the detective stands up, wobbling and his knees buckling.

Sherlock stumbles down the stairs and into Mycroft's waiting car, Lestrade and the politician in tow.

"I know which warehouse they are in." Mycroft states looking worriedly at his brother who is hunched over and breathing erratically.

"The one Joseph Abernathy died in." Sherlock pants out in response, trying to straighten up and failing. Unintentional connections have never been this strong, it worries Sherlock because if he is experiencing the emotions this vigorously, he can't imagine how much John is suffering, let alone the fact that John is transferring a lot more than emotions. Sherlock heard his scream, how? Why? How hurt is the doctor?

"Faster Mycroft." Sherlock puffs when another wave of paralysing pain hits the detective, causing Sherlock to groan out loud.

"We are almost there, my team will get there before us and neutralise threats." Mycroft remarks, typing on his mobile, his eyes wild and full of thick emotions. Lestrade remains quiet, staring with intent concentration.

"ARGH!" Sherlock screams suddenly and nearly passes out, images of blood enter the detective's brain and Sherlock stops breathing. Why can he see images? Are they coming from John? What is going on?

Sherlock lists forward, almost careening into the floor of the backseat, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Lestrade acts first, grabbing the detective's head and helping him onto the leather cushions. The DI is handling things exceptionally well, considering that a friend of his is actually a telepath and he can communicate freely and dangerously with the detective.

He's handling things swimmingly.

"Sherlock, what now?" The politician asks anxiously, his face worried and not even bothering to hide.

"I can see what he is seeing." Sherlock gasps, watching as the images of blood float into his brain and pain, endless pain comes with it.

"Two minutes, Sherlock." Mycroft calls, "Hang on."

Sherlock curls into himself, grunting and yelling in pain as the sedan travels fast, definitely ignoring the laws of the road.

A wave of shame, guilt and regret hit the detective with such force that Sherlock thinks they are his own emotions. The detective interprets the _"I'm sorry."_

"No. No." Sherlock cries. Another wave of pain and then a brief image, white walls surround the doctor and Sherlock can see it.

The detective is frazzled but he knows where the doctor is being kept.

"Hurry." Sherlock yells, sending thoughts to John.

* * *

John grips his stomach with force, the images are finally subsiding. Why did Moriarty leave?

 _"Because you are going to die, Watson."_ The doctor answers himself bitterly.

John lays on the cold floor with defeat, his whole body aching as he slowly bleeds out. John's grip is loosening and the doctor is fighting to stay conscious.

He opens up the connection without hesitation, the doctor feels these are his last moments, Moriarty has left him to die. He sends shame, guilt and regret.

 _"John. John. John."_ The detective is desperate, and John can see images of Mycroft's car float through the connection.

John sends waves of calm and happiness, something to make the detective less wound up.

 _"John. Stop. We are coming. I'm almost there."_ John smiles weakly to himself.

A rush of pain shoots through the doctor, causing John to squirm on the ground, arching his back in frustration.

 _"We are here John, just hang on."_ John sighs in relief but the agony hits him hard. John's hands are slippery and losing their determination.

Slowly, the doctor closes his eyes and tries to relax.

* * *

The pain is suddenly gone for Sherlock, the detective takes a deep breath just as the car enters the complex.

"Shite." Sherlock calls, bursting out of the car and into the warehouse. The detective briefly registers Mycroft's men floating around the warehouse, their guns out and searching. Sherlock scoffs, he knows that Moriarty is long gone, they should be focusing their efforts on finding John.

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls after him but the genius doesn't stop, his mind focused on John, mentally trying to rouse the doctor.

The poking sensation has stopped and Sherlock instantly fears the worse.

With Mycroft and Lestrade following, Sherlock twists around corners and down hallways, running deep into the factory. He recognises the room, he searched it when they were last here.

"Hang on John." Sherlock pushes with distress panting slightly as he sprints through the warehouse.

Sherlock turns the next corner and burst into the room.

The detective freezes for a second and it's enough to scan the area. In that second, all the genius sees is blood, on the walls, pooling around the doctor, just like the image that John had pushed into his brain.

John lays on the floor motionless, he slightly curled onto his side. His right arm grips his stomach loosely while his left is jutted out uncomfortably. Bits of broken chair litter the ground around the doctor and Sherlock starts to move again.

"John." Sherlock screams out loud, running to the soldier. He is crying and falling to his knees by John's head. The detective grabs the man's head, cradling John in his lap.

"John." The younger man wails, rocking the two of them back and forth as Lestrade and Mycroft enter the room, the two men freezing at the sight.

"John. You have to WAKE UP!" Sherlock screams and the doctor seems to wince slightly before opening his eyes.

John's vision is blurred but he smiles bleakly at the familiar voice.

"Hey." The older man's voice is hoarse and scratchy and John winces. Lestrade bends down wordlessly and presses his hands to the doctor's stomach, sirens already singing in the distance.

"Hey yourself." The genius blubbers, gripping the man and pulling him tighter. Sherlock's exposed hands are cupping John's neck and the doctor is being fed pleasant memories from Sherlock's thoughts. Calm thoughts cause the soldier to close his eyes.

"You have to stay with me. Stay awake!" The detective commands, pulling all of his thoughts out of the doctor. John's eyes shoot open in surprise.

"I'll...try." John pants out, his breathing becoming shallow.

The doctor winces when Lestrade presses harder onto him.

John can barely feel Lestrade's images. They are scattered and John doesn't even bother focusing on them, he winces when Lestrade moves his hands away briefly and it's enough for Sherlock to notice.

Before the detective can do anything about it, the doctor suddenly arches his back, screaming out in pain and Lestrade pushes harder, trying to stop the blood but the pool beneath them just keeps growing and growing.

"John. John." Sherlock yells, his hands flailing and his body moving with desperation. Suddenly, the doctor falls limp in Sherlock's lap and the detective's hand immediately find John's pulse, it's weak and fading fast.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yells, looking up briefly with tears in his eyes.

"They are here." Mycroft calls back quietly.

Sherlock catches Lestrade briefly lifting his hands from the doctor's midsection, his blood-stained hand growing slippery. John writhes in torture, struggling in pain and turmoil.

"Lestrade. Get away." The detective demands and the DI looks shocked.

"I have to keep-" Lestrade begins, staring at the genius with glaring bewilderment.

"I said, get away." Sherlock says through gritted teeth but Lestrade doesn't back down.

"He is going to -" Lestrade yells back but Mycroft's hand is suddenly on the DI's shoulder.

"You are hurting him, Greg." The politician says urgently and Lestrade's hands are gone so fast that the doctor arches his back again, his mouth screaming through his unconsciousness.

One of Sherlock's hand snakes down John's torso and finds his midsection, pushing pressure against the wound.

"JOHNATHAN! You do not get to die on me." The detective yells, one of his hands gripping at the doctor's face, sending cold thoughts trying to break John out of his unconscious state.

It's not working and Sherlock is growing even more anxious.

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

The detective cries over and over again, he doesn't notice when the paramedics storm into the room, his eyes focused on the bloody face of his boyfriend.

A firm hand grips Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock you have to let go." Mycroft's voice says.

The detective lets go swiftly but doesn't move. Lestrade hooks an arm around the detective's thin waist and scoops him up, making the younger man stand and getting him out of the way.

Sherlock stares in shock as the paramedics work on John, there gloved hands moving swiftly as John winces and writhes against the connections. Just before Sherlock opens his mouth to yell at them, John stops moving.

"I've got no pulse." One of the medics says suddenly and Lestrade feels Sherlock tense against his form.

* * *

The paramedics had to dash out of the warehouse and they were gone before Sherlock could catch up and ride with them. The genius had cursed and snapped at everyone, running to Mycroft's waiting car and jumping in. The DI and the politician barely had time to hop in the car before it took off.

Now, the detective paces the waiting room, demanding answers. It's been twelve hours and the doctors, nurses and Mycroft alike, will not let the detective see John or even give him information about the doctor.

Mycroft had gone about an hour ago to see what he could find out and the DI is sitting on a chair, wringing his hands and watching the genius with an anxious stare.

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

The detective pushes over and over again, hoping for him to answer back.

The sudden clicking of shoes distracts Sherlock and the genius looks up to see his brother.

Mycroft's head is lowered, staring at the tile floor beneath him. Sherlock almost collapses.

"No." He cries quietly, watching his brother with extreme apprehension and disbelief.

The politician finally makes it to the detective and he stands directly in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Mycroft starts, breathing a deep sigh and slowly raising his head.

Sherlock grips the man's shoulders, searching Mycroft's face for lies.

"No." Sherlock breaths weakly, grabbing his older brother's chin, causing the politician to look into Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft's face is full of guilt and shame, grief and sadness. It's all Sherlock needs, he turns his face away, his eyes red with sadness.

"No." The detective wails quietly his hands sliding lazily from the politician's shoulders. The genius's face is blank but his eyes are darting wildly with sadness and grief. Lestrade is suddenly next to him and the detective moves away, cringing from the comfort.

John is dead. Gone, gone forever and it's all his fault.

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

The doctor doesn't answer and tears fall down the detective's face with increased fervor.

John is gone. No more jumpers, no more smiles. No more John.

The detective shakes his head, this can't be right. John doesn't die, he is a soldier.

"I want to see him." The genius commands, intent on proving his brother wrong.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock." Mycroft states moving closer to the detective, preparing to catch him if his brother runs.

"I don't care what you think, Mycroft." Sherlock spits angrily moving towards the morgue, trying to bypass his older brother.

Mycroft stands his ground and stays firmly planted, blocking the genius's way.

"Mycroft." Sherlock hisses before sprinting down another direction. Mycroft freezes for a moment, confusion in his face as Sherlock takes off down a different hallway.

Lestrade doesn't hesitate, he bolts after the detective.

The detective zigzags around the hospital corridors, finally making it to the morgue.

He can hear Molly in the room, her sniffles alerting Sherlock to his denial.

But the detective doesn't hesitate, he bursts into the room, pushing both doors open with his hands.

The genius freezes when he sees the man on table, Molly's back to him, covering John with a sheet. The detective can't move and all breath leaves him.

Arms hook around the detective's elbows and within seconds and Sherlock is being pulled back out of the morgue, the doors swinging shut ominously.

The detective doesn't struggle, he doesn't move, he lets himself get dragged out of the room. The room that John is in.

The room that dead John is in.

Sherlock wants to scream, he wants to yell and hit things but nothing comes. The detective is numb.

Sherlock's back meets a wall and the detective is forced against it by Mycroft and Lestrade hands.

The genius's vision is blurry and his mind is blank. Thoughts escape the genius and he isn't even bothered.

_"John."_

"Sherlock." Mycroft calls, placing himself in Sherlock's fixed vision, the genius's eyes never leaving the door. "You need to breathe."

The detective involuntarily refuses. How can he breath? John is dead. He isn't breathing. The genius doesn't deserve to breath.

_"John."_

John is dead.

The fact finally hits him and the detective collapses, doubling over, dragging Mycroft and Lestrade with him.

A hard structure is beneath the genius abruptly, bending the man's body and causing Sherlock to sit.

"I want to see him." Sherlock says weakly.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Molly says coming through the doors, looking into the detective's eyes. Her eyes are bright red and puffy.

John is dead.

Sherlock is too tired to fight.

_"John."_

John is dead.


	29. The Rebirth of A Doctor

The doctor wakes slowly, his midsection hurts and his brain throbs. The smell of antiseptic lingers in the doctor's noise but John ignores it, it's a far better smell than blood.

"John." Mycroft's voice is impatient and it calls out to the doctor. John wants to run away from the voice, he wants it to be Sherlock's voice. Where is Sherlock? Why isn't he here?

"JOHN!" Mycroft yells again and John becomes suddenly anxious. Why is he screaming? Is there something wrong with Sherlock? Is that why he isn't here? The doctor fights through the drugs and the haze and his eyes flutter open in a panic. The room is cold and John misses the detective's warmth.

When John finally gets his eyes open, he scans the room before finding Mycroft. The politician stands next to John, his umbrella tapping on the ground and his face smooth and impenetrable.

John tries to shake his head but the pain and the agony stop him. He looks up at the elder Holmes with curiosity.

"Mycroft?" John rasps out weakly, hissing slightly as a shooting pain moves across his body.

"Do not contact Sherlock." Mycroft says loudly and insistent and John's face twists in befuddlement. Why can he contact Sherlock? Is he okay?

"Why?" John breathes out, looking worriedly at Mycroft. How did the detective get hurt? Did Moriarty go after Sherlock? John is panicking, picturing the genius in a ditch somewhere.

"This is very important." The politician says, capturing John's wild eyes while looming over the blond man's bed. "You are dead."

John reels in confusion and his mouth shoots open. _"What does he mean I'm dead?"_ John thinks to himself staring at the politician. Why would Mycroft say such a thing?

"I'm dead?" John chokes out,

"Yes. It's imperative that you don't mentally contact the detective." Mycroft remarks bluntly and John's face twists in confusion. "We just got him to believe it."

"Wait. What?" The doctor shouts and looks angrily at the elder Holmes. "I'm dead and Sherlock doesn't know!"

"That's the whole point of you being dead, Dr. Watson." Mycroft snaps impatiently.

"Why? This doesn't make any sense." John is angry and irritated and confused and a little bit sad. Where is Sherlock?

"Moriarty fled and he thinks you are dead." is Mycroft's simple response like it's the most straightforward thing in the world. "He will never know you are coming."

"WHAT?" John screams appalled at Mycroft's tenacity.

"You are dead to the world." Mycroft explains again and John huffs in annoyance.

"You keep saying that, and yet I'm still confused." The doctor is angry, his fist twisting into the sheets uncontrollably.

"We had to kill you so you can chase after Moriarty." Mycroft clarifies in his own version of 'your an idiot' tone. John is too angry to care.

"Why?" John shakes his head, all his pain being ignored, confusion and answers becoming his number one priority.

"You have...advantages." Mycroft explains, walking around the room languidly.

"Because he thinks I'm dead." John inquires.

"Precisely." Mycroft sighs in relief, glad that John is finally catching on. "That and you can sense him."

John stares in shock. "Oh come on now, Sherlock told me." The politician says waving off John's gaping mouth.

 _"Sherlock."_ The doctor suddenly thinks about the detective and how this is going to hurt the man, devastating him.

"And Sherlock thinks I'm dead?" John asks firmly and Mycroft's nods enthusiastically, thinking that this is going better than expected. Unfortunately for Mycroft, it is far from over.

"HOW COULD YOU?" The doctor screams, grabbing a pillow from behind him and throwing it suddenly at the elder Holmes. Mycroft stares in shock and easily (and gracefully) ducks out of the way of the flying object.

"John-" The politician starts, tucking his twirling umbrella under his arm anxiously, and holding up both hands in surrender.

"THIS WILL KILL HIM!" John yells, anger seething through him and the doctor's vision is starting to see red.

"John, calm down." The politician says quietly but John doesn't, he scowls with anger and disgust.

"You didn't even consult me!" John screams, throwing his arms in the air.

"John," Mycroft starts. "You know as well as I do, that Moriarty is a dangerous man."

"That's a bollocks excuse Mycroft." John exasperates. "You killed me without even giving me the chance to choose."

"I didn't have another choice and neither did you." Mycroft snaps angrily catching the doctor off guard.

"Of course I did." John spits back, "I'm a human being, I always get a choice."

"That's very naive of you Doctor." Mycroft remarks acidly, waving his hands like he is trying to physically bat away John's ignorance.

The stare at each other in silence for a long time. John trying to calm down and the politician watching with interest.

"You will be saving Sherlock's life." The politician comments finally, trying to entice the doctor.

John shakes his head indignantly. "Don't even think about making this about him." John snarls. "You know full well, this is a matter of national security. This is about you."

Mycroft lowers his head. "Fine, but you are the only chance to stop him. He thinks you are dead." Mycroft states, looking at John with conviction and determination. In that look, John knows he isn't going to win.

_"John."_

_"Oh great, perfect timing."_ John thinks bitterly. His face must have twitched because Mycroft is instantly talking to the doctor.

"You can't contact him John. This is important." Mycroft states, looming menacingly over the doctor. "He needs to believe you are dead."

John shakes his head indignantly. "I can't do this to him."

"It's already done." Mycroft states. "He knows you aren't coming back. Turning up alive would ruin the chance we have."

"Mycroft." John hisses at the morbidity of the politician's statement. "This is cruel."

"You are being selfish, John." Mycroft moves towards the bed, his voice firm and commanding.

"How?" John asks incredulously, failing to see the connection.

"No matter what you chose, you are dead until Moriarty's corpse is in my possession." Mycroft voice turns scary and dark, a hint of manipulation and terror radiate from it. John resists the urge to cower in alarm. The soldier stands his ground and glares at the politician.

"If you refuse to go, Sherlock will try to avenge your death and die in the process." The elder Holmes continues.

John stares in horror, the politician is right, Sherlock would travel all over the continent searching for vengeance. The detective would die and it would be all of John's fault.

"Your selfishness will get my brother killed, John." Mycroft adds, twisting John guilt and pain even more. "Only you can stop Moriarty."

John is torn between Sherlock and getting rid of the evil genius for good.

"What guarantee do you have that if I go, Sherlock will stay." John questions quietly and Mycroft smiles slightly at the doctor's resignation.

"I can be very persuasive." The politician comments.

"I think you mean manipulative." John mutters and the elder Holmes lets out a chuckle. John knows the man is forcing him to go after Moriarty and he is using his own brother to do it. If Mycroft has such good connections why doesn't he stop Sherlock from leaving the continent regardless? This is a lose-lose situation and once again John has become the unwilling puppet.

"This is a once in a life time opportunity, John. You will return and Moriarty will be dead." The politician is standing next to John know, his demeanor soft and patient.

"This will kill him." John repeats with a sigh, tears falling from his eyes.

"My brother is strong. He will make it." Mycroft explains but John shakes his head.

_"John."_

Tears fall down John's face as he talks. "Fine. Where to?" John exasperates, burying his head into his hands with resignation.

"Switzerland." The politician remarks, smiling gloomily.


End file.
